Shadows in Light
by anirilgalwen
Summary: He had left the Enemy in the Plane of Shadow. He had returned and started a new life. Who could destroy his happiness now? It would NOT be these mere orcs… Please R&R.
1. Prologue: Threats to Happiness

_The characters that belong to Bioware are the property of Bioware. The rest are mine including canon tweaks. Forgive me. _

**Prologue: Threats to Happiness**

The tower in which Dernhelm stood, broken off five stories above the base, protruded above the land like a bone of some fallen creature now smashed into ruin. In the courtyard far below, the tumbled blocks of Castle Jhareg lay scattered like deadwood, their weathered faces moss-covered and cracked. It was amazing to see how quickly the forest had reclaimed this once evil place now that the power of it had been broken. In twenty years or so, without tending, the forest would rid itself of the taint of Castle Jhareg forever.

Given the dismal scene below it was surprising that it filled Dernhelm with such peace. As he peered down from the tower window high above, it occurred to him that the wreckage of this once powerful fiefdom was tempting him with the promise of a life away from the bustle and claustrophobia he felt in the city. Cut off and cursed by the world, no one would willingly come here; no one wanted to remember it. "This would be a perfect place to live," Dernhelm thought as he looked out at the land below. Here he had a chance to start a new life with his wife and family in peace, a chance to carve out the future he had always dreamed. In a place forgotten by the world, here he could build memories. He just wished the world would allow him that peace.

"Dernhelm the Great, settling down and starting a family; I still can't believe it," said a gruff voice behind him breaking him from his revelry. Turning from the window, a lean but muscular middle-aged man stood before him, a grin splitting his round, red-bearded chin from ear to ear.

Trying to hide his surprise for he hadn't heard the other enter – they always tried to catch each other unawares – Dernhelm stood with measured aplomb. "Believe it," Dernhelm said with a smile, raising his arms to stretch with a catlike grace, his expression incongruous with his weather-beaten and disheveled appearance. His thick, maroon dreadlocks were in disarray and his cloak was severely travel-stained. With a contented sigh, he unconsciously scratched his scruffy beard.

"Come here you old fart," his friend said, laughing at Dernhelm's coolness, drawing him into a great bear hug. "It's amazing we still find amusement from that game at our age."

Separating, Dernhelm held his friend at arm's length. "Game? What game are you talking about, Demas?" Dernhelm asked, feigning ignorance. They both shared a laugh.

"It's been too long," Dernhelm said, embracing his friend in another strong hug. "I am glad you answered my message."

"Naturally. If you consider something important, it usually is. Old Blackstaff is concerned about this as well. Had you not sent a message, he was planning on sending me here anyway; he says he feels something strange in his bones. Plus," he said with a toothy grin, "I couldn't pass up the chance to spend more time in this wild country of yours." As a ranger like Dernhelm, Demas spent most of his time outdoors, but little could compare to the wild country of the Savage Frontier. It had a rugged beauty to it that Dernhelm had never found the equal of in all his years of travel. Demas spent most of his time in the areas south of Waterdeep, where duty kept him, but throughout his long service in the employ of that great city, he took whatever opportunities he could to visit Dernhelm and spend his days traipsing through the woods and mountains there in the northern Sword Coast.

"It is beautiful isn't it?" Dernhelm said rhetorically, turning back to sit himself in the window well. He lost himself in the beauty of the landscape gracing the horizon, the sharp peaks and the quiet valleys. "This _is_ a perfect place," Dernhelm repeated to himself.

"So, how is married life treating you? How is Aribeth? And… how is this baby I hear so much about?" Demas laughed with disbelief. "Imagine _you_, a baby!"

"It's amazing Demas. I never knew that I could be so happy. It's still sometimes hard to believe that we are even together, what with all the trouble we've been through; much like a daydream. She grows even more beautiful by the day if that were possible…" he said, losing himself in private thoughts. His private smile was positively radiant. He looked up after a moment, remembering where he was, his cheeks heating. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"Ramble on, my good friend," Demas said, pulling up the lone chair in the small room to face Dernhelm. "After what you two have been through, I don't mind in the slightest… not listening to how happy you are."

It didn't take Dernhelm long to accept the offer. "We take walks in the park, Demas!" Dernhelm said, enervated by the mere thought of his wife. Standing, he began to pace around the little room and gesticulate. "Can you believe it? _Me_ getting the chance to take _walks_… for _fun_? And without wondering if someone is laying in wait for me! Practically every moment I have spent in a city in ages, I have been fighting for my life. And now… I even have my own house in Neverwinter! A house that I can call my own. A place where I am not the guest, where I don't have to pay by the night! I never believed that could happen. And a library! I have books, Demas! And time to read them…" he paused, and his face fell slightly. "Well, until of late. Until this trouble began."

For a moment his thoughts went to the threatening danger but once he started talking about his family, he couldn't stay upset for long. All trouble fell away from his face. "And the baby? It's what I always wondered about but never dreamed was possible! By Ao I am happy!"

Demas let out a deep, good-natured chuckle at his friend's excitement. It warmed his heart to see his friend happy. Dernhelm had had a difficult life, a life of adventuring placed upon him because of the needs of the moment, and many had assumed that adventuring would be the end of his life as well. It nearly had been on many occasion, Demas thought, which was why seeing his friend settling down was so important.

"How have the people of Neverwinter accepted Aribeth? I recall the last time, they wanted to lynch her. I know Nasher let her out of prison, and she certainly served her time, but I doubt many could forgive her."

"That's the thing that is truly amazing!" Dernhelm said, gesticulating so wildly that had the room had shelves, their contents would be on the floor. "I figured it would be a hard sell, short of impossibility, you know? I mean to come from enemy and prisoner to being even able to walk the streets without threat of harm is astonishing enough, but get this: Nasher held an open election to choose the new Knight General of the Neverwintan Guard… and they chose _her_!"

At this Demas' eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "They _what_? When did this happen? No news like this has reached Waterdeep."

"Five days ago. I was there when the vote was cast. It was a completely public election by a show of hands. Nearly everyone was there in Justice Square. Over ten thousand crammed into that small space. The event was so momentous what with her name on the ballot, everyone wanted to see her. The vote wasn't unanimous but she clearly held a wide majority."

Demas stood up and performed a small caper. "That's wonderful news. Praise Ao."

"Indeed!"

"What do you think was the cause of this change of heart? I was surprised when there wasn't a riot when Nasher actually freed her from prison… even though it has been fifteen years, but to go from that to this…"

"I think me marrying her might have something to do with it," Dernhelm said, pretending he wasn't stating the obvious by rolling his eyes and rubbing his neck. He looked about the room abashedly.

"_No_…" Demas replied, mockingly. "The _Hero_ of Neverwinter, Waterdeep, and several other *ahem* _little known_ events marrying a "fallen" paladin may cause some people to rethink what they really remember about the situation. Come to think of it, I bet over the years as tempers cooled they may have realized that their reaction to Fenthick may not have been entirely, shall we say… justified… you think? And that they may have been just a little responsible for her… *ahem* reaction? That could explain this apparent change of heart."

Dernhelm chuckled. His friend always had a way with words.

"You may be right. And it may also be that they realize there was never someone as effective or dedicated as her. Regardless, she is ecstatic. And if you thought she was determined before, you should see her now. Especially with recent orc attacks."

Demas paused, reflecting. "And the baby?"

"Two months along. You can't really notice it on Aribeth yet, but she _has_ stopped wearing tight-fitting armor," Dernhelm grinned. "…Generally." His smile became a wicked grin. "...She has chosen to switch to chain mail."

Demas laughed. "A pregnant warrior-woman. Somehow I am still scared," he said, without a hint of sarcasm.

"So what's news from Waterdeep?" He asked, sitting back in the window well, yielding the floor to his friend.

"Adventurers are just now starting to trickle back into Undermountain. The dry spell after the battle with Mephistopheles was longer than expected. The good thing is, Durnan used the reward he received for his efforts and this slow period to make the Yawning Portal even better than ever. It has a third story now! Also-"

"Does the ale still taste like swill?" Dernhelm interjected.

"Dernhelm, this is Durnan you are talking about." He replied with shock. Then he grinned. "Of course."

"Also," Demas continued. "Argali the Smith is making a killing off of the weapons she confiscated from the drow and duergar that followed Mephistopheles."

"And what of you? What have you been up to?"

"Khelben has had me down around Sespech and the Vilhon Reach, checking up on some rumors."

"The Reach? Nothing ever happens down 'that-a-way'" Dernhelm replied. He turned away from the window to look at Demas with a raised eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

"The Lantan gnomes have proposed a plan to build a waterway linking the Lake of Steam and the Reach… _through_ the Nagawater."

"They _what?_" Dernhelm stood up quickly at the comment, only to begin a long string of muffled cursing as he cracked his head on the stone above the window.

Ignoring the expletives, Demas chuckled at his friend's misfortune. "Yeah. The gnomes proposed to the Sespechians a way to link the waters through their territory. They'd give Sespech control of the waterway… _if_ they got a share of the profits on any trade that may happen to come through there. It was _easy_ if you can believe a gnome, to join the passageway _through_ the Nagawater. It was only a trench of about fifteen _leagues_." Demas emphasized each startling point.

Dernhelm was practically speechless. "My goodness," he said, his dreadlocks flopping about as he rubbed his head. "Fifteen leagues! Why that's even crazy for a gnome! And _through_ the _Nagawater_… That means they have to have some way to _deal with the nagas _…" With each word his eyebrows crept higher into his hair, his eyes getting as big as saucers.

Demas remained silent and continued to stare at him as if waiting for something.

With sudden realization, Dernhelm gripped his friend by the shoulder as he realized the implications. "That would be a huge boon in trade, linking the Swords with the Heartlands… that's _incredible_."

"And just think…" Demas replied with poorly concealed mirth. "If trade can be done that way, the caravan raids by the Zhents will be useless, well… because no one will need to use their routes anymore. Once I was able to wrap my brain around the concept, I nearly fainted. The potential is huge."

"But I would imagine Chondath would have something to say about this. They certainly won't allow Sespech to get such a huge profit boon. They will undoubtedly wait until this… waterway is finished and try and take it. Sespech would be overwhelmed – I don't think Chondath will hold back as in times past. Not with this much profit potential on the table."

"That's what Khelben wanted me to check out. He realized the implications, and he also realized that every government in the area would want to make war upon Sespech to control it. It didn't make sense that Sespech would agree to this, knowing how their neighbors would react, if they weren't assured they could hold onto it. He couldn't see how they _could_ defend it successfully as they haven't been able to defend themselves in times past and he was intrigued by how they planned to now. Especially because of how Waterdeep could profit off of such a waterway… but only if it was in stable and_ friendly_ hands."

"And how do the Sespechians plan to do it? What's their secret?"

"The gnomes have agreed to provide weapons for the defense of Sespech in exchange for a share in taxes to be imposed upon every ship that uses the waterway, uh,… the 'canal' I think they call it…"

"But weapons don't do Sespech any good because their population is decidedly small. What aren't you telling me?"

Dernhelm could see Demas had a smirk on his face as if he was concealing some tidbit of information. His friend always liked to keep him guessing as if he then had the upper hand.

"These new gnome weapons can kill a man wearing full plate at a range of fifty yards. Ones that even a weak old man could use!"

"Ridiculous."

"Oh it's possible. They tested it on a dire tiger they managed to… liberate from a Chondathan patrol that got too close to the border. Dropped it in one shot."

"But how? Is it a type of crossbow?"

"No. It's a metal tube about this long," he held up his fingers about four feet apart. "It belches smoke like a dragon, makes noise like thunder, and launches a metal ball about this big," He held up the fingers of his right hand about half an inch apart. "The ball moves about ten times the speed of a crossbow bolt."

"Incredible."

"The gnomes claim that with these new weapons – they supplied close to a thousand of them and they say more are on the way – the Sespechians will be able to hold off the Chondathans. And, get this, they are constructing a huge metal tube in a Sespechian kiln that is twenty feet long and can launch a ball of solid metal five inches across nearly four-thousand feet! The gnomes claim they have several in Lantan but they are too heavy to transport across the sea."

"By Ao," was all Dernhelm could reply, his face pale as he considered the implications. "But won't Chondath launch a preemptive attack before such a device ever gets built and before more weapons arrive?"

"It's somewhat of a closely guarded secret at the moment. Very few outside of a tight ring of people in Sespech know it, so keep this hush-hush if you get me."

Dernhelm didn't even ask how if it was such a closely guarded secret his friend would know about it. Besides being a decent ranger, he was almost unparalleled in remaining concealed and gaining access to guarded areas. Old Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun relied on him as one of his best information-gatherers. "How can Sespech pay for all this? I'd imagine they aren't cheap."

"The gnomes say that once the waterway, that is, the _canal_, gets built, the profits will be astronomical, and even their small share in taxes will make them wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice."

"So the gnomes are that confident? But what about the nagas? I assume they can't be pleased with this plan."

"That's the other thing. Although I haven't seen it, I have heard that the gnomes used these very weapons to exterminate the naga threat once and for all."

Dernhelm sat back in his window seat in disbelief. "And I though the world was changing enough in _my_ neck of the woods."

Demas chuckled. "So when is this meeting going to begin? When are the scouts to arrive?"

Dernhelm smiled secretly. Now _he_ was holding the tidbits of information, he had the upper hand. It was childish but they both laughed at it nevertheless. Seeing Dernhelm grin, Demas just rolled his eyes. Then he chuckled.

"Oh great master, reveal this tidbit of knowledge. Oh whenst is the meeting to begin?" Demas said with a supplicating gesture, bending low to the ground.

Dernhelm chuckled. "Now. Everyone is here. The twins arrived half an hour ago. You are the last."

"What have they told you?" Demas said, his curiosity piqued.

"They haven't told me anything. I wanted you to hear it firsthand; there's no point in repeating everything. Plus," He smiled. "I just wanted a bit of a reprieve before we get started. I have a feeling we won't get another one after we do. And we haven't talked in ages. Heck," he stretched. "If we had more time, we'd have a smoke and an ale."

"That would have been nice," Demas said, sighing. "Ah well, let's get this started."

"Indeed," replied Dernhelm. Standing, he placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, and they descended from the tower to the meeting room far below.

The meeting room at the base of the tower was a large circular chamber, the remains of the old guardhouse at the front gate of the main tower of Castle Jhareg. It suited their purposes for the meeting solely because it was the last room large enough to accommodate them that was still standing. In the center of the room, a small fire pit held a cheerily burning fire, the smoke of which curled up and filtered out through a crack in the ceiling. The outflow, however, wasn't large enough, leaving the room smoke-filled and somewhat irritating to the eyes. His scouts were arranged on odds-and-ends of furniture in a semicircle about the fire pit, their faces toward the hearth in an effort to ward off the northern Sword Coast chill.

To his left, a tall, muscular half-orc lay dozing, seated on the floor with his back against the wall, a giant double-axe balanced across his knees. To his right, a human barbarian lounged, his long legs dangling over the arm of an old oak chair. Barac was covered in furs and hides, his long black hair untied and arrayed about the wolf-fur edging to his cloak top. A long fur coat was hanging on a peg on the wall behind his chair. Even at leisure he was still covered with an impressive display of weapons – long knives, a short sword, and a small mace – and the collection leaning against the wall behind the chair was equally impressive. On the opposite side of the fire, partially obscured by the smoke that filled the room sat a small human female, a grizzled dwarf, and the wood elf twins Davorin and Aniril, his two scouts from the Neverwinter Wood.

As he entered the room, he felt rather than saw Demas sidle over toward the half-orc that was dozing, and turned to see his friend bending over him. No one so much as breathed as Demas leaned down next to the half-orc's ear and in a surprisingly loud voice shouted, "Daelan! Orcs!"

The half-orc jerked so hard from his sound sleep that his head cracked the stone wall he had been leaning against with a solid thump. With an oath he jumped to his feet bringing his double axe swinging even as Demas nimbly jumped out of the way. Dernhelm and the scouts were howling with laughter. Daelan, finally understanding what had happened and who had done it as he shook sleep from his eyes, dropped his axe on the floor and gathered Demas in a gigantic embrace. Demas nearly gasped for breath.

"It's been too long Demas you old goat," Daelan said with a booming laugh. He practically twirled Demas off his feet, and he had to release his embrace so that the other could speak.

"It has indeed, it has indeed," Demas replied after he had caught his breath.

"How goes things?"

"Good. Business is booming as always down south. Never a dull moment. Too many people to kill." he shared a wicked grin with Daelan.

Dernhelm couldn't help but laugh at the wide, toothy smile on Daelan's olive-colored, piggish face.

His gaiety was short-lived, however, as he felt the weight of leadership settle about his shoulders. When he knew he had business to attend to, it was hard for him to think of anything else. Used to his idiosyncrasies, as he walked around the fire, everyone got quiet.

"To catch you all up to speed on what we know at the moment before we get involved with new information," he paused, making sure he had everyone's attention. "The attacks have intensified. We have been forced to evacuate most of the outlying towns to the city proper to reduce the burden on the Neverwinter Guard." No one seemed surprised.

"The attacks follow the same trend we have observed to date: the orcs are very organized engaging in uncharacteristic but very efficient hit-and-run tactics. The Guard rarely gets to a village while the orcs are still at the scene, which is why we called for a general evacuation. The orcs scatter when they are engaged and we've lost few guardsmen – they all but fall before us – however the attacks are increasing in number. At this point, as long as we evacuate the villages, which I might add is progressing slowly, we are not in any danger of serious loss of life and Neverwinter is under no immediate threat."

Inside, Dernhelm felt sick at discussing even some loss of life as no consequence because he grieved deeply at pain and suffering and the inability for men to live freely without danger, but he had to consider the big picture. In the grand scheme of things, they were doing everything they could to protect as many as possible. The people were understandably reluctant to leave home and field for a city that promised little or no work, and the potential that the danger would last indefinitely. Looting of empty homes was also a fear, but Dernhelm couldn't allow the Guard to be on evacuation and protector duty as well as street patrol. That is why this meeting was so crucial.

So far, they had not been able to pin down the source of the orcs – their staging area – as the orcs appeared to be dispersed in groups all along the western edge of the Wood. The orcs were to this point, one step ahead of them. This made Dernhelm decidedly angry. The loss of life and even a short setback in finding the source of the attackers – the attacks had been happening for the last three months – ensured that _when_ Dernhelm found them, they would wish they had a deep hole in which to hide. Hopefully this meeting would shed light on the source of the orcs and then the Guard… and he… could go out and eliminate them.

He turned to look at his scouts each in turn. "It's up to you to tell me whether I should rest easy knowing that it will be only a short time in routing them out of the Wood," he paused. "Or not." Dernhelm had a reputation for being dour but he learned through his long career to take nothing for granted and treat every problem seriously. This one was shaping up to follow the pattern of orc attacks that happened every decade or so: the mountain orcholes got too crowded and a strong orc would rise to power and whip up the tribes with hopes of loot and glory. Sometimes those attacks petered out like a candle, but others grew so large, like Obould, it took armies to check the bonfire. He had to be careful not to misjudge this as one of the former times and be caught with his pants down.

"So what have you learned? Why are the orcs attacking and why are they so organized? Is this simply 'orc gets too big for his britches and tries to unify the tribes under the banner of Loot the Humans'? Who is leading-"

"They're building battering rams," Aniril blurted out.

"What did you say?"

"The orcs are building battering rams," Aniril repeated with a grimace as if he'd just eaten a mouthful of sour grapes.

Dernhelm walked around the fire to stand between Aniril and the pit so that he could give Aniril all of his attention. His twin brother Davorin gave a similar face but remained silent; he had lost his tongue during a long imprisonment with the Zhentarim in Darkhold. Davorin rarely showed any emotion, feeling that by doing so would draw attention to himself and his disfiguring condition. The Zhents were none too kind to him and his face and body bore a testament to their startling cruelty. Aniril on the other hand still bore the unblemished fair skin of the elves and was decidedly outspoken, often making up for his brother's silence.

"Start at the beginning and leave nothing out," Dernhelm said, as if the other would have anyway. That was not what he was expecting or wanting to hear. _"Doesn't sound like the former times,"_ he thought.

"We managed to track one of the orc raiding parties deep into the Wood after their attack on Rizzel's Landing. The Guard arrived and the orcs dispersed, but several remained in a group and made for the Wood. We followed them for a long way, into the foothills of the Crags near to the tree line. As they progressed, some of the scattered orcs rejoined them. It was slow going; they didn't behave like normal orcs. They sent out scouts and had a rearguard. They weren't hard to evade – they are still orcs – but it was weird seeing it. They came to a clearing in the woods, a wide patch where all the trees had been felled. A large group of orcs, several hundred I'd say, were gathered there, and they were continuing to fell trees. They seemed very organized… for orcs." He paused, glancing at his brother, and then he leaned forward conspiratorially.

"We could see them shaping the trees and attaching swing chains to them. They were _definitely_ making battering rams."

At this, Davorin motioned to his brother with his hands, a sort of sign language the twins had developed since his impairment. Davorin made a moving motion with his hands and then held up to fingers.

"I was getting to that," said Aniril. "They are also making scaling ladders."

"Wonderful," Dernhelm said, sighing.

"What numbers should we expect?" he asked after a moment.

"We estimate that there are less than two thousand orcs in the Wood taking part in these attacks. After seeing them making the rams, we decided we had better find out how many we were up against."

"That doesn't make sense," Dernhelm replied, running his hand through his hair as he stared at a point on the wall over Aniril's head.

"That's what I said," Aniril agreed.

"That's less than half the number of Neverwinter Guardsmen and people we can drum up as militia," Dernhelm said. "Battering rams imply they are going to lay siege to the city itself, but there is no way they could hope to take it with a force less than half the number of defenders. They'd need at least_seven_ thousand and probably closer to ten."

"It gets better… or worse depending on how you look at it," Aniril continued. "They have also enlisted the help of some cave trolls and ogres, but that is not the strange part. We saw orc standards for the Bloodteeth _and_ the Clenched Fists."

A sour feeling settled in the pit of Dernhelm's stomach. "But they are mortal enemies," Dernhelm reflected. "Which means something is powerful enough to enforce unity among the clans. This doesn't sound good."

Demas spoke up echoing Dernhelm's thoughts. "Sounds like what happened before the Horde Wars. But that still doesn't make sense that there are so few fighting orcs. Are you sure you tallied them correctly?"

"Yes we are. We went through the Wood twice. And as for this shaping up to be like the Horde Wars, don't get your hopes up."

"What do you mean?" Dernhelm asked, his curiosity piqued by a strange sound of sarcasm to Aniril's voice. "What else do you know?"

"We knew something about it didn't seem right, not with the numbers they had, and yet they still seemed like they were gearing up for a siege. We tracked scouts sending messages between leaders of the different groups, but some were heading up into the Crags away from the groups encamped in the Wood. We figured that the huge force we weren't seeing in the Wood may be up in the Crags, hordes waiting to come down and spill out like in days of old. We scouted out numerous orc dens, even the chief dens of some of the larger clans. If they all emptied, there may be fifteen hundred extra warriors but no more. So we waylaid one of the messengers. You'll never guess what we found."

Everyone waited. Aniril was also big on creating suspense. "The messenger was bearing missives from Mt. Hotenow."

This elicited a collective "What?" from all the scouts, including Dernhelm and Demas.

Mt. Hotenow, a dormant volcano, producing geothermal waters generated by a heat source deep beneath, it kept the Neverwinter River warm, regulating the city temperature and allowing crops to grow even in the frigid north of the Sword Coast. It was also considered haunted and taboo by every orc, ogre, troll, or goblin in the Crags. The area around the volcano was black and dying supposedly caused by some wasting evil that resided there, and few even traveled within sight of it. Even during the Horde Wars, the orcs preferred to die at the hands of Waterdhavian steel rather than set foot into it when they had been driven back into the Crags. For the orcs to be receiving missives from the volcano, for messengers to even come near it let alone travel to it, suggested something worse than even the largest of the orc uprisings. Something up there was strong enough to overcome age-old fears, something worse than orcs.

Dernhelm was used to dealing with "worse." His adventuring career had been fraught with dark and sinister plots making an average quest – or war for that matter – turn to something else entirely, but he was hoping that this was _not_ one of those times. Not now that he finally had a wife and a baby on the way. Not when life was changing. He had been hoping it would be a simple, old-fashioned skirmish: stupid orcs in large numbers against cold, hard steel wielded with coordination and intelligence. He sighed.

"I take it you have found out who the leader is?" Aniril was very thorough.

"We had to… persuade the messenger we waylaid a great deal before he would tell us. He was just a little scrawny fellow but he fought like the dickens. When we finally got him to talk he began screaming that judgment was coming to us and all the usual sort of doom and gloom.

"The leader's name is Ugluk Maneater, supposedly an ogre mage of 'significant power.' He took up residence in the old Cave of Harnak close to ten months ago. Since then he has unified the tribes and brought them to the situation in which we now find ourselves."

"Did you scout around the volcano proper?"

"We got only into the fringes of the dead zone. We could feel an unnatural fear beginning to creep over us like a blanket and we assumed it was the ogre's magic. We didn't press any further for fear of announcing our presence. From what we could see from our vantage point, there was only one camp in the dead zone filled with a handful of wicked-looking trolls and ogres. They were encamped along the path leading down from the Cave."

"So, full told we are only dealing with about thirty-five hundred orcs, still less than the number of defenders of Neverwinter." He began to chew his lip as was his habit as he was thinking over a situation.

"I don't like it," Dernhelm casually remarked. It was a rhetorical statement – no one else liked it either – but this nuance was lost on the half-orc.

"You can say that again," declared Daelan in his deep baritone. He stood, hefted his huge double-axe angrily, and walked over to look out the western archway to the meeting room, lost in thought. Daelan always seemed dour, given to impatience and rash decision-making, though once you befriended him, it was evident that he was kind-hearted and noble.

He could not in any way, however, consider orcs without an intense and overwhelming hatred. It was they that constantly made war on his Uthgardt tribe and who were responsible for his existence that caused him to be an outcast in most of the free world. Seeing an orc would whip him into the frenzy of a barely contained avalanche.

Dernhelm looked after him for a moment, then returned to the task at hand.

"Even if this mage is powerful, he would need more ground troops. The Valsharess had nigh on five times that number. He can't expect to get past Eltoora and her apprentice magic users by himself."

"They must know or think they know something we don't," Demas said.

"Exactly," Dernhelm said distractedly, continuing to chew his lip. He turned to Aniril. "Based on the battering ram construction you saw being completed, what does your gut tell you about when they would be able to launch an offensive?"

"Nothing about this seems normal so how could I say? The number of battering rams they are shaping is several times what an army of their size would need. As if they are building rams for forces that don't exist." He sighed in consternation. His brother's fingers seemed to speak Aniril's thoughts, twirling in agitated gestures. "I wouldn't figure on more than two months, but who is to say. Little of this is happening like the history books."

Dernhelm sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. "It never does," he said, almost to himself.

He turned to his other scouts who had remained silent to this point. "Taleria," he addressed the female. "What news from Luskan?"

"Well, as you know, Luskan has been closed just like Neverwinter. High Lord Teamus and Archmage Arklem have ordered the surrounding settlements to take shelter inside. What you may not know is that they lost fifty men in the last attack."

Daelan had turned back to the room and was staring at Taleria with fury. Not at her, but at her pronouncement. Dernhelm was shocked. "Fifty! Against orcs?" She nodded. "How?" This was the largest number of casualties sustained in any one attack.

"There were about fifty orcs prepared for what looked like an assault on the druid encampment. Luskan's soldiers surprised the orcs and at one point actually had them surrounded from what I can piece together. This is something the Neverwintan Guard has not yet done. Instead of dropping their weapons and attempting to flee like we have seen, the orcs formed ranks and attacked the soldiers in a wedge formation. The soldiers were naturally surprised and many fell before they could react. A pitched battle then began; the soldiers numbered about a hundred."

"A hundred of those vicious Luskan brigands against fifty orcs! That should have been an orc slaughter."

"Indeed," Taleria replied.

"Instead we are talking one-to-one casualties," Demas noted.

"And you say the orcs were well-disciplined?" This from Dernhelm.

"The survivors said they put archers to the center surrounded by axe and pikemen. And they said they fought like devils. They likened it to a pod of cornered trolls."

Dernhelm really began to chew his lip now. Aribeth would be mad at him; she hated this "human" habit of his. "This is even worse than before. The orcs fleeing from our Guardsmen must have been playing us then, lulling us into our traditional feeling of battle superiority."

"Luskan's standing army numbers only about eighteen hundred soldiers counting militia conscripted from the sheltering peasants," Taleria continued.

"Have the orcs attacked the city?" Demas asked, concerned.

"No. The orcs have not even been seen from the walls. They seem content to focus on the outlying settlements as around Neverwinter. But this recent engagement has prompted the recalcitrant people who don't want to take city shelter to reconsider. The militia has all been recalled to the city proper and even the druids have taken shelter inside."

Dernhelm ran his hands through his hair, lost in thought. So the orcs have backbone too, he thought. They don't have the numbers to take the walls but also don't fight like orcs. They are making battering rams for a force beyond their number and have put aside taboos and clan blood feuds. Not good. And they are being led by an orc-mage of 'significant' power. Neverwinter seemed safe based on the numbers but Dernhelm was not willing to take any chances. And Luskan was in jeopardy should the orcs decide to besiege it. Granted Luskan hated the Neverwintans and they held no love for Dernhelm since he had all but cleansed the city of High Lords and wizards during the Plague War, but Dernhelm also couldn't sit back and let them die.

Barac appeared to be dozing but he opened his eyes as Dernhelm faced him.

"What news do you bring from the Spine of the World?"

"There have been several small orc raids on towns in the Dale and in the mountains bent on 'acquiring' livestock and victims and supplies." Barac's voice was as hard as stones grating on each other. "This is nothing out of the ordinary. We have tracked down several small bands and destroyed them to the man and they act like orcs always act: cowardly and afraid."

"That's good news," Daelan growled, a wicked smile playing across his lips at the mention of orc dead. Dernhelm said nothing but continued to chew his lip.

"If anything," Barac continued. "I'd say it has been too quiet for the orcs in the north as of late. With Obould Many-Arrows dead, I would have expected to hear more from his sons. He raised them all to be cunning and opportunistic. I would have expected the hills to run red until a successor emerged. Instead, the pond of normalcy remains unperturbed."

"Aye, much is the same in and around Mirabar," the dwarf put in before Dernhelm acknowledged him. Merron Mernon, a dwarf who used to reside among the surfacers of Mirabar, lived now as a trader of weapons. Several years ago he had joined the Harpers and Dernhelm and he had become fast friends. He still continued his weapons trade among the towns of the north from Mirabar to Longsaddle and periodically he would make larger ventures to Waterdeep in the south. His weapons trade was a boon to the Harpers providing them with access to information from all over. Currently, his men were on leave in Neverwinter.

"And what east of the Crags?"

"Longsaddle is quiet as before. The orcs have seemingly left it alone. They have not but seen an orc for nigh on ten years when last they began to cause trouble. It seems as if them orcs are only interested in this side."

Dernhelm rubbed his chin and began to pace around the room. Everyone fell silent. As Dernhelm reviewed the facts in his head and the addition kept coming up in error – silence in the north and east, anomalous orc behavior, threats to Luskan at the least and Neverwinter at the worst, and an ogre mage seemingly behind it all – he let out a long sigh as he committed himself to the decision about what must be done. He had gone this particular route many times before, and though he instinctively hated it, he knew that it was the best solution at the moment – for some reason, he was good at it.

"Demas," he began, regarding his friend a warm yet serious eye. "I need you to go back to Waterdeep immediately and tell Khelben what you have heard. I would that you could stay the night, but I do not even want to wait that long."

Demas began to object, to say that it couldn't be that bad as to need to leave immediately, but he had heard the same mysterious happenings himself and he wasn't about to take chances. Something about it all didn't sit right. He wished he could stay the night, not because of being tired from the road – he was used to that – but more because it was good to see his friend. Such were the penalties for the lives they had chosen, the burden of responsibility. He nodded.

Dernhelm relaxed visibly, comforted by Demas' friendship – not that he would have expected otherwise – and gave his friend a roguish grin. Turning to the others, he pointed first at Taleria.

"I need you to get back to Luskan and keep an eye on things. If the situation degenerates and they start this war, Luskan is the least defended and we need to know the orcs' movements so we can best come to Luskan's aid."

As much as they all disliked and distrusted the people of Luskan, none argued. None of them could deal with senseless loss of life.

"Barac, you are my eyes in ears in the Spine of the World. Keep an eye on the silence for me – there may be something ominous behind it," he paused, and then turned to Merron.

"I want you to make it back to Mirabar but you will get there by first going through Helm's Hold and Longsaddle. The Helmites need advance warning that this could turn ugly. Given what we have now seen I think they should abandon their mountain stronghold for the safety of Neverwinter.

"I don't think the orcs would attack them as it would give away their hand too early, and those hills are too broken to mount an effective assault. Still, convince them that we could use the extra manpower," he paused. The dwarf was on the side of good, but every man had his price. The dwarf would want compensation to make the journey – unlike his other scouts the dwarf had a caravan to look after and guards to feed – and he needed new weapons to keep up appearances of successful trade in Neverwinter. "I have some samples that the Mirabaran nobility might take a fancy to, and some lesser ones for the people of Helm and Longsaddle. Marrok has been busy."

Rubbing his hands together at the prospect of making money, he smiled. "I think such a trip could be managed," the dwarf said. Reclining, he drew out a pipe, lit it, and began to blow smoke rings to add to the general haziness of the little room.

"And what of us?" Aniril asked.

"You two and Daelan will accompany me back to Neverwinter so we can acquire supplies and some assistance, before we head into the Wood. I'll need you to give me detailed information on the enemies' forces."

"To do what?" Aniril replied.

"What we always do," Daelan growled from the doorway with a grin. He hefted his double-axe and flexed his muscles in excitement, that is, if avalanches can get excited. "We are going to pay a fatal visit to this ogre mage."


	2. Chapter I: Through a Glass, Darkly

**Chapter I: Through a Glass, Darkly**

As the priests began melding their energies, a swirling cloud of divine white light appeared in the center of the room hovering over the cistern that held the reagents. Aribeth smiled. Thanks to the mercies of Tyr, the cure for the plague was almost at hand. She couldn't help but sigh with relief. Soon they could end the suffering of the people and mend the tear their hurt left in her soul.

She took a deep breath and gently channeled her powers into the flood of magic. The cloud grew brighter and twined around her body in otherworldly beauty, like a lover's caress. Across the room, Fenthick smiled as he guided the weaving, encouraging her.

She couldn't help but smile in return. Fenthick looked radiant in his white priestly robes, a symbol of faith and purity. He was her strength, her support. Committed to her in body and soul, she had never met someone that could give such unconditional love. He was a paragon of self-sacrifice and his trust in the inherent good in others never faltered. He was everything she strove to be as a Paladin of Tyr, and his companionship alone made her feel closer to her god.

Whenever she looked at him, she was reminded of how much she had grown because of his companionship. She wouldn't even know Tyr's love if he had not led her to Him and for that she was indebted to him, enamored with him. Her heart was filled with gratitude.

As the flow of magic continued, she looked at all the familiar faces, friends that had helped her grow as a follower of Tyr, people she had fought, suffered, and worked beside, and her heart swelled at being able to share this moment of joy with them. Lord Nasher Alagondar had been the city's stalwart defender spending many a sleepless night as he maintained order in the plague-ravaged city. He had been her lord but more he had been a friend and confidante. He stood beside one of the great roof pillars, his arms folded across his broad chest, his face stern yet smiling, sporting his legendary long mustaches perfectly oiled and shaped. His eyes bore the heaviness of the burden of government but he waited here with the hope of seeing the salvation of his people.

Her fellow paladins Jonathan and Devall grinned from across the cistern as they aided Fenthick and the other priests in controlling the weave. She couldn't help but remember their bravery as they defended the Peninsula Gate from the escaped prisoners.

She even smiled for Desther, though they almost never agreed and were constantly arguing; even he had aided them in his brusque, officious, and egotistical way. If not for him and his Helmites, hope may have left the city long ago sending it into chaos. He stood off to Lord Nasher's right with two of his Helmite brethren waiting with joyous expectation, clenching his meaty hands absently as he watched the spell's progression.

And then there was Dernhelm, Neverwinter's 'Hero,' standing off by himself looking dour and grim.

It was for Dernhelm, Aribeth's prayers of thanksgiving were offered to Tyr. Dernhelm who had mysteriously appeared out of the east before the city was sealed, who had recovered the four reagents to make this moment possible.

As she looked at his dark expression amidst the joy of the weaving and the expectation of this moment, her smile faltered and her part of the weave momentarily trembled. He should be happy now that the cure was almost at hand but instead he looked ready for war. Always ready for war.

She remembered when she had met him in the hall hours before and had tried to thank him again for his help.

"_You look unhappy," _she had said._ "How could this be so now that the cure components have been returned to us? You should be rejoicing. Tyr has smiled upon us through you!"_

"_The cure is not yet in our hands,"_ he had replied._ "I will rejoice when we have the cure and administered it to the people and not simply possess the ability to _make_ the cure. My life has taught me not to celebrate until celebration is already occurring."_

His acidic response had taken her completely aback and he had left her in the corridor dumbfounded and saddened. And angry. She had wanted to chastise him for his lack of faith, but she had to keep reminding herself, he wasn't a follower of Tyr; he couldn't therefore see Tyr's blessings. She added a supplication for grace to soften his soul to her prayers of thanksgiving.

"_Something about him frightens me,"_ she thought suddenly. _"Something more than his simple faithless attitude."_

His mere presence made her uneasy, as if he somehow pushed her outside her zone of comfort. True, as an unbeliever, many of the things he did made her uncomfortable – namely his methods of routing out evil – but she routinely dealt with those who did not follow Tyr. She knew it wasn't simply his beliefs. It was something she couldn't put her finger on.

In physical appearance he looked like a beggar next to Lord Nasher, or even Desther, with his dented and scuffed armor and his unkempt mop of maroon dreadlocks. His greatsword stood point downward against the flagstones and his hand rested on the pommel as if he expected an attack even here… even now. His grim attitude she surmised resulted from the long and arduous hours he had given to recovery of the cure.

As she scrutinized him however, she could not help but realize that beneath his tough and weather-beaten appearance he possessed an air of nobility. She knew that he was strong, intelligent, and self-sacrificial, and over time she had discovered that he was kind and amiable when circumstances permitted it. Whenever she thought about him though, she found herself drawn to him in a most distressing and uncomfortable way. It was something in his bearing, his confidence and his fierceness…

He was the exact opposite of Fenthick: godless, faithless, untrusting… strong, powerful, and aggressive. She herself was strong, the commander of the Neverwintan Guard, and she valued strength. Many thought it strange that she had chosen Fenthick as their faith was the only common denominator, but Fenthick was so pious, so enamored with her, and she owed him her very faith…

Dernhelm saw her looking at him and stared back at her. For a moment their eyes met. His eyes were bright with the fire of determination, and yet they held something else...

She shook her head forcefully, and turned back to the weaving. It was almost complete. She could not afford to be distracted now.

The cloud grew had grown in intensity and coalesced into a large sphere of energy nearly five feet in diameter that rotated slowly above the cistern. From what Fenthick had told her, the weaving was almost complete now. Her excitement surged. Lord Nasher coughed, breaking the beautiful silence. The two Helmites with Desther moved to take up places on her right side, their robes swishing as they walked. Their faces were alight with excitement as they stared at the cistern; Aribeth guessed they were looking for a good vantage point. Even she wanted to stand on tiptoes to see this momentous final step.

A pulse surged within her, a beat alongside her heartbeat that filled her suddenly with warmth. With a rush of air that nearly put out the torches, the glowing orb extinguished with a sizzle, bathing everyone in radiance. The hush that followed was profound. For a moment, everyone stood motionless, even those who had not been part of the weaving.

Then, with a beaming face, one of the priests of Tyr walked toward the cistern and looked over the edge.

"It's complete," he announced with relief and reached for something out of view. Suddenly, the head of a crossbow bolt erupted from his spine, and he pitched backward with a burble of blood that sprayed luridly across the white flagstones.

"Shit," Dernhelm grunted and the room erupted into pandemonium. Magical gateways appeared in the air about them, disgorging cloaked and hooded figures, bearing swords and shields, which leapt at the surprised priests and guardsmen. Sensing an attacker behind her, Aribeth turned just in time to avoid a sword that slashed at her. Her warrior's instincts instantly took over. Drawing her dagger she slammed it deep into her attacker's chest. His grey cloaked blossomed with red and he went down with a cry.

"To me!" She shouted and drew her sword. Thankfully, though she did not expect it, like Dernhelm she always went girded for war.

About her, several guardsmen and three priests already lay dead in crumpled piles, blood spilling out of necks or opened bellies. The other guards stood in two groups, protecting the remaining priests who laid about them with battle magic and healing spells. Surprisingly, though they had been caught unprepared, the battle was quickly turning in their favor. Four of the cloaked attackers lay dead about Lord Nasher and Dernhelm who fought back to back.

Devall lay to her left, missing an arm at the shoulder. His eyes were glazed in death. Jonathan crouched low over him, sporting a massive cut that went from his left hip to his right shoulder across his belly. He held his sword defiantly in his right hand as his other clutched his stomach closed, but she could see him failing fast. She almost reached out to him, but she knew that to effectively tend to someone you needed to clear the field first, no matter how painful it may be to turn away.

It was this training that saved her. A large figure appeared before her with a war axe, and she had just enough warning to raise her sword to block the blow. The impact knocked her backward, sending her sword flying. She fell to one knee, her body supported by her left wrist as she caught herself from falling completely. A shadow loomed over her, the hefty bulk of Alls the Helmite standing not two feet distant, eyes boring into her with a look of pure hatred. Attacked by a Helmite? It made no sense. She was so stunned she couldn't move. Hefting his axe, he prepared for the killing strike.

A crackle of bright light burst from the center of Alls' face, momentarily blinding her. As the afterimage faded, a burning hole had replaced the wide nose, blue eyes, and normally jovial smile of the guardian of Helm. Alls sank to the ground lifeless and fell from view. Behind him stood a surprised Fenthick, his face registering horror and utter revulsion, eyes wide as saucers.

"The cure!" She heard Dernhelm shout and her heart clenched. Whipping around, even as she stood, she saw Desther calmly draw a large glass canister from the cistern. He held it almost lovingly and it was momentarily blocked from view as he held it against his chest. Despite Dernhelm's shout, she relaxed. The cure was safe.

"Praise Tyr-" she began breathlessly, but something in Desther's posture froze the words in her mouth. Turning to face her, their eyes met.

And in that instant, she could see with perfect clarity the terrifying truth they all had for so long denied. Her breath left her in a rush.

With a conspiratorial wink, Desther gave her a rude gesture and spat on the blood-drenched floor.

"I, Desther Indelayne, go to destiny." He turned as if to leave.

Something broke within her. With a raw scream, Aribeth charged at him. But Desther was quicker. With a flick of his fingers he disappeared with a flash and a puff of smoke. Not one second later a greatsword tumbled across the room through the place where Desther had stood and buried itself deeply into the opposite wall, the handle quivering from the force of the impact.

"The bastard!" Dernhelm growled as he walked over to his sword. Putting one foot on the wall, Dernhelm pulled, his muscles bulging, and tore a ragged chunk out of the plaster.

His look was murderous.

_But, inside her, a fire raged._

They stood there, seventeen condemned men in a row, hands and legs bound to giant wooden uprights atop piles of pitch-covered wood. Sixteen of the men were dressed in tattered robes bearing the insignia of Helm, the last remnants of the false priesthood that had infiltrated the city. Their faces seemed to span the entire range of human emotion. Some glared boldly while others wept openly, crying out for mercy. Several had vomited over their battered robes and one stood so slack it seemed he was standing only by the aid of the bindings. These last merely stared blankly into space. All bore signs of violence. As the city guards had led them to their pyres, peasants had thrown cattle dung and stones and even bricks, nearly killing several of the prisoners.

Thousands had turned out to watch the execution, every man, woman, or child who could still stand, filling Justice Square to bursting. There was barely room to keep the peasants a safe distance from the coming bonfires. Their screams for blood were deafening.

On a raised dais on one side of the prisoners stood Dernhelm, Lord Nasher, Lady Aribeth, and Eltoora Sarptyl. Aribeth looked haggard and old, dark circles hanging like weights under each eye as if she had been crying for days. Dernhelm and Lord Nasher looked grim yet sad, watching Aribeth with concerned glances. Eltoora hid her face deep within the cowl of her Many-Starred cloak.

Closest to them with his head bound securely to the upright, Desther looked straight forward, sneering defiantly at the crowd. He was a mass of cuts and bruises, and his beard was matted with blood. A large gash from his head leaked blood into his right eye, practically forcing him to keep it closed. One peasant had nearly staved in his skull with a brick before Nasher was able to restore order.

For several long minutes a guard standing below the dais beat on a metal gong with the butt of his halberd to quiet the people but the sound disappeared within the din. Finally though, it became clear that the men would not be executed without silence, and the gathered onlookers subsided to a low roar.

Lord Nasher placed his hands on the wooden railing of the dais and slowly looked over the people, searching faces. Woman clutched children to their breasts, and husbands held onto wives as if by sheer force of will they could stave off the death that had claimed so many others. The rage and hatred that emanated from them was palpable.

His jaw clenched as he saw the madness in their eyes, at the suffering they had borne… Suffering that as a leader he had been forced to watch but powerless to stop. It tore at his heart but he forced himself to be the stone like a leader must… in public.

Grinding his teeth he turned to the line of condemned men. They had caused this calamity then betrayed them again in the face of hope. Twice-damned he hated them. He wished he could… He was stone. He had a job to do. With a loud voice he cried out so that all in the square could hear clearly.

"Here before you stand the remnants of the false priesthood of Helm. They are found guilty of the murder of the entire company of Helmites at Helm's Hold, nearly two-hundred men, women, and… children." His voice quaked briefly as he said that last word even as several voices cried out in anger and Desther sneered. "They are in some as yet unknown way responsible for the plague's arrival in Neverwinter. Furthermore-"

"Spare us the details old man," Desther shouted, spitting out blood. "I find this attempt at a showing of civility amus-"

"I wasn't finished!" Nasher slammed his gauntleted fist hard enough on the banister that it snapped, showering bits of wood on the guards below. Miraculously, Desther held his tongue. "Furthermore," his eyes were fire. "They are guilty of the theft of the reagents necessary to form a cure, thereby prolonging its influence and the suffering of the people of Neverwinter, dispersal of false blessings that acted to spread the plague," he still couldn't believe that and as he said it bile rose into his throat. He forced the bile back down; he was stone "…murder of priests and guardsmen in Neverwinter, and theft of the completed cure for the plague. Your crimes have only one punishment: death by incremation."

Instantly the crowd began to cheer and press forward, but Lord Nasher held up his hand. When they had quieted, he continued. "While you are doomed in this life, I ask that you tell me who employed you to commit such atrocities. Maybe your punishment will be lessened in the life to come."

Several of the men cried out with desperate voices, stating preposterous lies in an attempt to be spared, but Desther cut them off. His sides heaving he let forth a booming laugh. "You tortured me for days and did not get the answers you sought and I will not appease you now. I sold my soul because they promised me greatness. Evil forsakes evil when it has outlived its usefulness as I did when Dernhelm caught me. But I will not betray my employers now. I will prove my usefulness to them even in death and when they reign, you will see that I will reign with them. Then you will all suffer. The plague will be but a nuisance compared to the horror you will suffer."

At this the people began to scream and push forward against the guards as if they might tear him limb from limb but Desther's voice cut across the courtyard like an axe. "Relish in the wonders of their might. Tremble and fear at their power. The destruction of this city is assured. They grow strong off of death and decay. They have fed upon this city and leached the marrow from its bones. All because of the plague _I brought_. But I couldn't have done it without my _dear_ friend, Fenthick Moss." He turned his head despite his ropes, their tightness cutting into his skin, and looked meaningfully up at Aribeth.

Instantly the people started shouting even louder at feeling their hearts torn as the hint of Fenthick's betrayal was brought forward again into the light. Several more of the convicted men cried out for mercy saying that Desther had deceived them.

"Liar!" Aribeth shouted and leapt down from the dais onto the stacked wooden logs that comprised his pyre. In her rage, she proved quicker than Dernhelm, who lunged to stop her. With a cry she lashed out and caught Desther squarely on the jaw, whipping his head up so hard that his neck nearly broke; the stout cords snapped from the fury of her assault. Teeth and blood shot out of his mouth, spraying gore on her white and silver armor. Pulling back her fist for another strike, Dernhelm managed to catch her arm at the wrist and wrenched her around. Her punch came off as an offhand slap which caught him in the chest but he refused to let go. Wooden logs of the pyre scattered beneath them, making their footing unsteady as the whole pile threatened to give way.

Desther's body, caught by the ropes, looked like it was suspended in falling. His arms were tangled down by his sides and his fingers clawed futilely at the bindings. Within moments his body began to heave and it seemed to all the onlookers as if he struggled to right himself. To Dernhelm and Aribeth, however, his thrashing was the heaving of his sides as he laughed low and menacing. Dernhelm grabbed him roughly by his blood-covered shirt and hauled him upright with his free hand.

Desther smiled as he coughed blood all over Dernhelm's face. Dernhelm barely flinched, his focus on the paladin. Aribeth struggled from under Dernhelm's right arm as she tried to get at Desther but his grip was iron.

"What is wrong with you?" Dernhelm shouted, shaking her like a rag doll as he spit Desther's blood from his mouth.

"Let me go!" Aribeth screamed and proceeded to hit him again and again. Though she was strong, Dernhelm jumped down to the ground with her all but tucked under his right arm. As the startled guards parted for him to ascend the wooden dais, she rewarded him with a savage kick to the back of the calf, nearly making him fall.

"He's not worth it," Dernhelm growled through clenched teeth. Behind him, Desther continued to chuckle as blood poured from his ruined mouth. "Pull yourself together!"

"But he's spouting lies!" Aribeth's voice was thick with emotion. She began to cry.

Dernhelm set her down roughly on one of the dais steps and spun her to face him, causing her to stumble as she was suddenly released. "And he will die for his lies as well as for everything else he has done. But you? Is this how you act? You are an arbiter of justice!" Dernhelm looked fiercely into her eyes.

"Justice?!" she shouted, taken aback. "What justice is there in the death of innocents? What justice was there in his actions?"

"None," Dernhelm replied flatly, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "But that does not mean there should be none in _yours_. Remember who _you_ are."

She opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort but then her eyes focused past him. The crowd had gone utterly silent and all eyes were fixed on her with looks of utter disbelief. Shocked she looked around at all of the faces and then down at the blood and gore on her own armor as if seeing it for the first time.

Her mouth opened as if to reply but no sound came out. For a long moment, she stood there frozen trying to collect her wildly spinning thoughts. Then Dernhelm reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Startled, she looked up into that intense gaze, and found compassion, sympathy, and… that something else which filled her with heat. As she looked into that gaze, a strange calmness flooded her.

After a second she shook her head, nodding in agreement to what Dernhelm had said. He was right; this was not the way she should act no matter how much Desther had to answer for. His fierce eyes softened a little as if he understood her internal struggle. Squeezing her shoulder, she turned, and together they ascended the dais. A sickening gurgle followed them, Desther laughing even as he choked on his own death. Neither Dernhelm nor Aribeth turned around, and at once the sound was smothered by a cacophony of voices as heads turned to gossip with each other. The condemned men, who had fallen quiet, as shocked as everyone else, suddenly renewed their futile pleas for clemency.

Lord Nasher was equally stunned. His eyes struggled between concern and alarm and the need to keep an impassive, impartial face against the business he was about. Aribeth, he thought. How hard we all have suffered if even she forgets herself!

Once they had reached the upper platform, Lord Nasher again signaled for silence. This time, banging the metal gongs was more successful at bringing a semblance of quiet. With sheer will he forced himself to scan the faces of the crowd once more, taking mental note of each emotion, each tortured glance. His insides churned. What he saw there was a reflection of his own inner hate, pain, and rage. He forced his emotions to a dull roar.

"Your judgment is final," he called out in a loud, clear voice. "It is time."

A drum roll started off to left, at the far end of the line of prisoners and a knot of guards bearing torches stepped from the entryway of the castle. Each took up position in front of one of the pyres, and stood still at attention. When the last stood before Desther, a burly man bearing a torch in each hand, the drum roll changed to a single repeated note. _Doom_, _doom_, _doom_. The square became silent except for the drum and the pleas of the condemned.

As one, the guards bent down and began to light the piles all around the base; the pitch-treated wood flared to life and the pyres instantly blossomed into rolling infernos. As the flames grew higher, the skin of the condemned men began to blacken and then crack. Violently heaving against their ropes in a vain effort to be free, the men trashed about. The pleas for mercy became horror-filled wails of agony. Desther however continued to laugh though his body spouted flame from every orifice. As the flame grew so intense that he was nearly obscured, his body suddenly withered and then split apart showering the pyre with his internal organs like a carcass that spent too long rotting in the sun. Not one single person looked away, man, woman, or child.

_She gritted her teeth._

Smoldering ashes and the smell of burnt flesh filled the square but not one person wretched or even coughed. The people were silent, inwardly fighting with themselves, searching to see if the hurt they had suffered had been justly recompensed or even slightly assuaged. Lord Nasher looked down upon them sternly, his own heart sickened at the evilness of men that had brought them to this point and on his duty that had ordered them to torment. No matter how much they deserved it, taking the lives of others always took something from the executioner as well. He had tried to avoid needless suffering on either side, but his heart burned from their screams as it burned for their just punishment. His thoughts were a quagmire of mixed emotions made even worse by the hatred that still radiated from his people though their torturers lay in small, blackened piles gone to whatever hell awaited them. And by the trial that still lay before him.

He had been taken aback by the reaction of Aribeth, a bastion of virtue, duty, honor, and justice, but he had to remind himself that even a paladin could not distance themselves fully from their emotions. He could not imagine what she must be going through, how she felt personally betrayed and even partly responsible for the calamity that had been brought on the city. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, but convincing one's own heart of that when it was so close to the agent of evil…

He felt even worse now. He was forced to bring forward her lover, Fenthick Moss, his trusted friend and adviser. He hated his duty; it lay anchored to his heart like a stone. But there was only one chance to save him and he had to take it, had to clear the air, and he didn't know if Aribeth would damn him for it or not. He hoped she would understand. He had spent hours deliberating alone in his castle, and he knew this was the only way.

Aribeth stood there looking almost as dour as Dernhelm usually did, her brow furrowed, and the sight of the sternness on her delicate elven face sent shivers up his spine. Any comfort that she had received from Dernhelm had seemingly turned to ash with Desther, now that the hour had come. He prayed to Tyr that everything turned out for the best, for her sake… and for Fenthick.

Turning back to the people, he had the guards signal for silence.

"One more matter of the utmost importance needs to be settled," he said in an emotionless voice.

Thousands of hard eyes turned to look up at him. He swallowed.

"In the last two weeks, as we rousted out the false Helmites, the Neverwinter Guard have relayed to me that many of you believe one of the chief criminals still sits among us in a place of power. Specifically, you have named our own Abbot Fenthick Moss."

Her heard Aribeth's sharp intake of breath behind him. His mouth tasted like ashes. The crowd below was silent.

"Such dissension and mistrust cannot stand if Neverwinter is to heal from the wounds inflicted upon us all by Desther and his false Helmites. I have therefore asked Fenthick if he would stand before you to be tried according to the will of the people, to face the claims which you have put against him. He has agreed," Lord Nasher said grimly.

A shocked murmur spread across the crowd; this was unprecedented. He noticed that some were smiling. Nodding his head toward Eltoora, a small glow began to fill the only clear space in the square and within moments Fenthick appeared with his hands bound in front of him, on a small platform normally used as a gibbet, the hangman's noose swaying in a light breeze behind him.

The crowd fell silent. Fenthick merely looked out at them, expressionless, gazing into each face and making sure he met each person's eyes. His eyes were lined with black bags.

"Fenthick Moss," Lord Nasher intoned in a strong but quaking voice. "Charges have been leveled against you including: collusion with the false Watchknight Desther Indelayne to bring the Wailing Death into Neverwinter, use of your authority to help spread the disease to all corners of the city-"

"You can't believe that!" Aribeth shouted. Dernhelm grabbed her from behind and clamped his hand over her mouth, but he was hard pressed as she tried to bite him. As she screamed, Fenthick jumped as if struck, and turned to look at her. Instantly his impassive face changed to a look of incredible sadness.

"My love," he began in a voice thick with emotion. "It is Tyr's will that I am here. The people have suffered endlessly. We are here today to end that suffering. If it is Tyr's will that I be sacrificed to complete the healing, then so be it. He has the power to kill me or set me free. His will is made manifest through these people. Though we value life and love each other, we are but servants of his greater will."

For a long moment they stared at each other, as if they were the only people there. Finally, breaking eye contact, he twisted to look at Lord Nasher even as he heard her sob behind Dernhelm's hand. Rock-hard Dernhelm looked like he wanted to vomit.

"Finish the charges," Fenthick said in a suddenly strong voice.

After a moment's pause, Lord Nasher spoke. "You are further charged with," he stopped. "Oh, pigs and violence!" Nasher shouted.

"You people know your mind in regard to Fenthick. I am not going to be a part of this. I have seen him, I have talked with him, I have worked with him, and I have bled with him. I know there is no evil in him and his only crime is a heart that is so naive and innocent it cannot understand how men can indulge in evil. I wash my hands of this matter."

After a moment, he regained his composure. He barely saw the people, his mind was so filled with disgust.

"Fenthick Moss has chosen death by hanging. Ironically, he chose the traitor's death because that's what you call him. How vote you? Remain silent if you consider him innocent and he will go free. Or shout aye if he is guilty and he will be put to death," he paused. "By _your_ will, not mine."

As he finished, a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone looked straight ahead as if ashamed to see the verdict in a neighbor's face or fearful that someone could discern the verdict in their own.

Nasher breathed a sigh of relief. He had never expected such a unanimous reaction giving the rumblings the guards had reported to him.

"Well then. Now that that is settled," he began, but a voice from the crowd cut him off.

"Kill him!" a woman shouted, breaking the silence. She looked like a hunted animal as she clutched her daughter to her. Nasher was unaffected. It was only one voice.

"Well, the decision has been made."

"Kill him!" a man shouted.

"Thank you for seeing reason."

"Kill him!" a young boy shouted.

"Fenthick Moss you are free to-"

And then the floodgates opened and pandemonium ensued. Dernhelm lost his grip on Aribeth as he stood completely shocked.

_Aribeth began to scream._

The army sat encamped north of the city, the shining walls of Neverwinter making the gorge rise in her throat. As she walked through the camp, making final preparations for the siege of the city, she could see the human mercenaries shrink back from her, afraid to raise her ire or draw her attention. Pitiful, she thought. Pitiful and weak. But sufficient to serve her purposes.

Fifteen thousand they were, more than enough to crush the city and bring about the destruction of her enemies – especially with her in charge. Those wicked, ungrateful people, those murderers of purity and virtue, that thankless, unforgiving mob. She would punish them for their sins. She would fall on them like a messenger of death. Then she would find a way to throw off her masters. Once they finished serving her needs. She would not be mastered by anyone anymore. Not Nasher, not Morag or Maugrim, not even Tyr.

Tyr. She paused. His name brought up memories of the long internal struggle that had brought her to this point, the weeks of descending into despair and blackness. As she surveyed the terrain, she recalled the many hours spent in desperate prayer, crying out for Tyr to reveal to her His will, the purpose behind Fenthick's death. And then an answer came and she had clung to it like a lifeline in the midst of a storm. Fenthick's death had averted more bloodshed. Yes, that was it. Since everyone in authority had been associated with Desther – her, Nasher, the Neverwinter Nine, Fenthick, Oleff – that put them all into question. By only putting Desther to death it would have made it seem that those "which had been in league with him" were still in power, casting suspicion and likely leading to open rebellion. By executing Desther's closest confidante, it seemed to the people that all ties between Desther's evil and the city rulers had been put to death as well. Fenthick was merely the scapegoat to avoid further bloodshed, the sacrificial lamb to bring peace to the suffering city.

As she spent time mulling over this new realization, her joy at uncovering Tyr's will in Fenthick's death turn to dust. She couldn't believe it. It was logical but utterly heartless. Fenthick had been given up to appease the mob, nothing more. It was unthinkable. She spat. Tyr's name tasted like acid.

She continued her rounds of the battlefield. This fight would be glorious, she thought. They will all be put to the sword. The mob would be given up to appease _her_ wrath, _her_ anger… and to see justice done. Justice. That was why she was doing this, she reminded herself. Not to aid Morag and her plots for world domination. Not to aid the Old Ones in some hideous rite. Simply justice. They were merely the agent to help achieve her goal. And then her anger would turn on them. _She_ controlled this army. Soon they would realize that!

She pictured in her mind those who she would put to death. The face of every acolyte of Tyr flashed in her mind, and then, the grinning, mustached face of Nasher. Nasher would be the last to squirm, and he would squirm – oh yes, for his crimes against reason and love and truth. He knew Fenthick was innocent but had given him up _to keep the peace_. A mob sacrifice. A life _wasted_ to appease a mob. He claimed he washed his hands of it, but it was his guards that pulled the cord, his guards that had been responsible. He was responsible. She could not believe that for a time she had accepted that rationale, been so searching for an answer that such a notion made sense. Now this city would have no peace, she'd make sure of that. She'd give them a sword instead.

As she returned to the command tent, its standards of a black sword point downward on a field of red flapping in the breeze, a clamor arose in camp off to her left. As she turned to look, the commotion began to spring up all about her, a building noise as if all her men were shouting about something at once. Then the tone of the noise changed and the air became full of the animal cries of orcs and the screams of men as if in mortal agony. She spun about wildly searching.

Were they being attacked? Was this some sort of enemy magic? Had the Neverwintans caught her by surprise? Impossible! The magic wards would have announced such a maneuver.

Just then a lance struck her deep inside, tore at the core of her being, filling her with white fire agony. She clutched her head as if her mind was coming apart. Collapsing to her knees, she let out a pitiful groan.

What was happening?

The iron of her will bent on destruction gave way like seeds of a dandelion in a strong wind, and she suddenly felt a tremendous sense of weakness and loneliness. Her anger and hatred seemed to all but disappear, filling her with pity and sorrow. What was happening to her?

She pounded the ground with a mailed fist.

"No!" she screamed. Not on the eve of her victory. But even that suddenly seemed hollow. The visions of glorious death that she would inflict on the people of Neverwinter began to make her sick. It was unfathomable.

Thoughts swirled through her head like a tornado. How far had she fallen? How far now that death of innocents could be so gratifying? No, she reminded herself they were not innocent. They were murderers. They deserved death! But deep within her a question started to arise: are they not simply as poor and misguided as Fenthick?

What was happening to her?

The mail of her gauntlet plowed the skin near her right temple. "Oh gods, the pain!"

How could she have thought to rain death upon this city, to murder women and children? She screamed.

Suddenly a voice called out to her, a voice she remembered. She trembled. The voice meant her death. Death to her for the deeds she had done. The voice would never forgive her. She could never forgive herself. She began to scream in terror.

"I am here," the voice said, almost calmingly, comfortingly. "It is over." She could not be comforted, not now, now that he had come for her. She recoiled at his gentle touch.

Death? She welcomed death. She opened her eyes and looked toward the voice.

It was Dernhelm.

She could feel Dernhelm holding her hand as she sat staring into space, her mind clouded in a wave of mixed emotions. His great calloused hands gently enfolded hers as he sat there silent and motionless. She couldn't think straight, couldn't focus. Not since the day that Dernhelm appeared in the middle of her camp. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. She couldn't tell which thoughts were her own, or which thoughts to trust.

It had seemed to make sense until the point that her army fell apart – her righteous indignation at Fenthick's murderers, the planned destruction of Neverwinter, freedom from unjust peasants and nobles… and gods – until Dernhelm had come for her.

She had thought he had brought death, thought that she would look up into his eyes and see her life pass before her in a brief flash as his greatsword fell. She had thought she would see black hatred. Instead she saw only tears.

She remembered crying out in shock as he knelt beside her, lifting her from the ground, and holding her tightly to his chest. She remembered beating her hands against his dented armor trying to escape from the fate she knew must come now that he had found her, only to fail in exhaustion. She remembered screaming for him to kill her and be done when her strength failed her, screaming until her throat was hoarse, but instead she only her heard him softly cooing to put her to sleep. She couldn't understand it. This didn't make sense. She was the enemy. Her mind began to unravel.

She awakened to find herself in this small cell with Dernhelm watching her from a chair in the corner, appearing as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Dark circles were under his eyes. It looked as if he had been crying. She found this the most impossible thing to believe.

For a long time they sat staring at each other in silence keeping to their own thoughts. Finally she could bear it no longer, the question burning to be answered.

"Why?" she asked. "Why didn't you kill me?"

For several minutes more Dernhelm said nothing. She was not sure if he was choosing his words; he hadn't moved. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. Shadows hid his face. All but his eyes.

"Let me tell you about your recent 'employers,'" he began with a low voice. His voice was thick with emotion as he spoke but she couldn't tell if it was anger or sadness.

"Morag had discovered a sacrificial rite used by the Old Ones to increase their power. It involved drinking the blood of innocents," he paused. "Luskan is nearly devoid of children because of her, that is, those who didn't die in the wars between the High Lords."

The look in his eyes was suddenly terrifying. It took her breath away. He sighed and his gaze softened. "I put an end to that.

"I stopped Morag from releasing the Old Ones and plunging all of Faerûn into an age of darkness under their dominion."

She was shocked. Shocked enough out of her tortured thoughts to pay attention. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she hadn't known the danger, or having known, she hadn't believed such a thing could actually happen. Her shock was further amplified by the humbleness with which he pronounced his achievements.

"Oh yes," he continued. "The threat was quite real and we stopped her just in time. We nearly lost though. Tomi and Linu both perished in the battle. Sharwyn may not recover."

She hung her head in shame, sorrow welling up inside for their deaths; they had been her friends. With their loss, she wanted to die all the more. How much suffering had she caused?

She could feel Dernhelm moving, and when she looked up he was kneeling next to the bed. She drew back in alarm but Dernhelm somehow calmed her, he made no aggressive moves toward her. She could see in his eyes that he would not harm her, and she could see something else, something that triggered a memory, a feeling deep within her that she could not put her finger on. Something that bore a memory of fear. But why wouldn't he do it? She deserved death for her crimes. Why doesn't he kill me? She began to draw away.

"You _will_ see. I haven't finished my story yet," he replied in a calm voice, and she realized she had voiced her question aloud. She began to grow angry. He was mocking her, patronizing her.

"When I killed Morag, I broke her power over her thralls," he continued. "Her powers were enormous. Her slaves and even her army were all bound by her will over their minds. They were moving about like marionettes guided only by her evil will."

"But that is not true. The army was under my command," she replied.

He kept speaking as if he had not heard her or was choosing not to listen. "True, her minions all had evil intents in their hearts – greed, lust for power, revenge, envy at the richness of the human lands – but it was she that bent these desires, twisted, fostered them and made them grow, all to serve her needs. Without her, there would have been no army, no war. She dominated them by their own desires."

She started to object but he continued.

"Killing her broke her dominion over the wills of her minions. Their desires which had once seemed so intense and all-consuming gave way to confusion and fear. Many had no idea where they were or what they were doing. When they saw the armies arrayed in front of Neverwinter fear took hold of them. They were so disorganized; they realized that they could not stand against their enemies. The army splintered and fled."

"No. That's not the case. We numbered many. We were strong. We…" she realized what she was saying but continued anyway. It nearly overwhelmed her that she should have led that army to destroy these people, but this didn't make any sense. They had been three times the number of the Neverwintans. Her mind was so fragile that even though she wanted to reject her part in this near-atrocity she needed something sure about herself to grab onto. She had been the destroyer. She had been strong. She didn't turn and flee. Her soldiers were weak compared to her, but they were numerous. This didn't make sense. Why was he doing this to her? Why would he speak to her comfortingly only to drive her insane with his words? It was almost more than she could bear. "We… were unstoppable."

Somehow she sensed he saw how his words hurt her and in that moment she could see a change come over him, a look of intense and honest sadness. He reached out and pulled her to him. She didn't resist.

"Oh my poor angel," he said as he rubbed his hand through her tangled hair. "Don't you see why I am telling you this? I'm sorry. I was never good with words." He began to cry.

She couldn't move. She was overcome. Her crimes were beyond forgiveness. Her thoughts began to tumble together again. Why didn't he kill her? What was he trying to say by all this? That she was weak on top of being a murderer? Why was _he_ crying? The tears came.

"I… I… don't understand," she stammered.

He pulled her away and looked directly into her eyes. There was that something there again, something she could recall but not name. What was it? What was happening?

"Don't you see? You were her thrall. She had dominated you but you didn't know it. You were under her power. You-"

"No." She pulled away. She couldn't look at him. Now he was trying to claim her crimes weren't her fault? Was he trying to make her feel stupid on top of weak and evil?

"When I talked to you in Port Llast, you were struggling with feelings of doubt and confusion. You said you still couldn't see how Fenthick's death was justified, that the people acted out of revenge. I didn't know what to say to you at the time. I tried to tell you that I agreed, but then you said somehow it fit into Tyr's plan. It was unjustified yet somehow divinely correct. You created an impossible dilemma for yourself. I… I didn't know how to help." She let him speak. She couldn't, couldn't fight him anymore. She was done. She gave herself over to listening to his words. It was all she could do to escape the pain.

"I knew you were strong and so I tried to help you just by being there. But then you disappeared into Luskan. I searched for you but Morag kept getting in the way. I couldn't find you." His voice was choked with tears.

"The next time I saw you, you were clad in black. I thought that strange. Do you remember what you said to me that time we met at Luskan's gates when I was taken captive by Maugrim? The words burned indelibly into my heart."

As he spoke, suddenly she remembered every word. She wanted to shut out his voice, her voice, but she was powerless. Something inside said that she needed to hear her words, some cruel part of her that wanted her to suffer. She knew that she deserved it.

"'_The people took out their despair on Fenthick,' you said. 'It was unjustified. They knew he didn't knowingly help Desther. They had known him years before the plagues began. They killed him because they wanted to believe he was involved. They had suffered so much that they couldn't believe that only Desther and his false Helmites were the culprits. Their need for an answer in blood wasn't satiated in Desther's death. They had to believe it was someone else, someone that they had loved. Only some cruel betrayal like that could make sense for the suffering that was forced upon them and not simply the work of an outsider. The plague was too cruel, hit them too strongly, taking their loved ones, their children. It had to have some black and evil cause. They made Fenthick the cause. They had their revenge; they got their justice by sacrificing innocent blood. They set upon him like animals, rabid animals, the whole city of them. Rabid animals have no place in civilized society and deserve only death. I go to show them the truth of that, the truth of what they have done. I go to cleanse them with the sword.'"_

His voice had grown strong while he spoke but as he finished, the emotion came back thick on his tongue. She could say nothing; she was stricken.

"I cried out to you, I could see what had happened. I saw how you were being controlled by Morag. I was helpless. I couldn't fight against Maugrim at that moment. I couldn't break free. He reveled in watching me suffer for you. He enjoyed seeing me discover the truth of what was happening."

As he continued his tale, she wanted to cry out, wanted to say how part of her died that moment seeing him bound by Maugrim, going off to torture and some uncertain future. She had tried to free him but at that moment, she couldn't control her body. She recalled being a prisoner in her own mind, colliding against a wall that had been raised inside her keeping her from control. Yes, that's it, she hadn't been in control. Something was inside her mind, growing, taking over, some force that sought to crush her will. In that moment as she lay there against him remembering that encounter, she believed. She could see how the woman she had become was not entirely of her own making, that she had truly been double-minded. That she had been controlled. She continued to listen, hanging on his every word. They were like lifelines to sanity.

"I made him pay dearly for that later," he continued, tears welling out of his eyes even as he gritted his teeth, chopping off every word. "When I broke free, I went after Morag. I knew she was the key. Haedraline showed me the way to the Source Stone. Morag…" he paused, and his eyes grew terrifying again, the tears all but crystallizing on his face. "Well, I… killed Morag. Her power was broken. I used the fading remnants of the Stone's magic to teleport to you. The rest you know."

"But…?" she asked.

"But what?"

"But… why didn't you kill me?"

"Look at me," he said with a commanding tone. Instinctively she looked up. As she looked into his eyes she could see in them that faint whisper of something she could not describe. What was it in his eyes? What was it she was seeing?

In an instant it struck and she understood what she was seeing. It couldn't be. She shrank back in self-loathing. Her deeds shone like open wounds, dancing in her vision. He drew her back into his arms again. His embrace was warm and comforting.

It was impossible, she thought. Horrible, beautiful, but impossible. It was…

Love.

Her world had come unraveled. Her thoughts ran wild inside her head. One moment it all seemed to make sense, she seemed to find what she was looking for, and the next moment her wild thoughts would condemn her and she would spiral back into darkness. The bouts of darkness seemed to be getting longer now, laughter and light seeming to recede into memory.

He was back again, sitting with her. She had told him she had needed time alone and he had listened, but he would only stay away for as long as she asked. She could feel his love burn for her, like a beacon in the dark places anchoring her to the world of light, but the weight of her misdeeds and the god-shaped hole of forgiveness that ate at her insides could not even be overcome by such a radiant light.

She loved him as well. She had come to that realization. It was one of the few things she knew for certainty. It was amazing that she could understand love in the midst of her insanity but there it beat like the heart in her breast. He said it was enough to overcome, love could overcome anything, even her darkest fears, but that surety grew less each day. Her misdeeds were not something that could be assuaged by this simple yet profound love.

She needed the love of her god, but try as she might she could find no comfort in thoughts of his forgiveness. They seemed hollow and stale and those feelings drove her deeper into her private depravity whenever she thought of them. He could never forgive her, not for turning her back to him. Dernhelm claimed Tyr would, that he was a gracious and forgiving god, but Dernhelm was faithless and he couldn't understand. He didn't believe. She loved him but she knew he couldn't understand. Tyr couldn't forgive her.

Something inside her told her it was impossible. How could a holy god forgive her for killing innocents? How could he forgive her for the raising of Port Llast and Fort Ilkard? Granted she realized now that Morag had been in control, but the core of revenge had still been hers alone, not Morag's. Morag could only augment evil, not create it in people just as Dernhelm said. Therefore, no matter how she looked at it, she was responsible, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men and women… and children. Tyr could not forgive that. No punishment was too great. Not for her sins.

Suddenly, as she thought about that last part as she had so many times before, she realized something truly terrifying. Her life had been a lie. She started to scream aloud.

"I am here my love," said Dernhelm, rushing to her side and cradling her in his arms. He was haggard. He looked like death. "What is it?"

"No, no, no!" she remembered screaming. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. It wasn't a lie. Her screams continued for several minutes until her throat went hoarse. Her fists beat against his chest as if she could batter down the images and thoughts that sprang to life in her mind.

"My love," Dernhelm cried. His heart was broken to the point of death, she could read it in his face. "Don't do this. Calm down. What is it?"

"I under… understand… I finally understand why Tyr can't forgive me."

"But Tyr can, he will, he has…"

"No!" This caused Dernhelm to stop and look at her now with a look of deepest sadness. She continued. Her words were almost impossible to voice aloud. "He can't forgive me…"

"Why not?" His words were almost a whisper.

"Tyr… doesn't exist."

"Go," she screamed. "Go! You must leave me alone."

"But, I can't," he replied, his voice was pleading. He was death. "I love you."

"Go! I need to be alone. I need to be alone!"

"I won't leave… you need me!"

"If you love me, you'll go! Let me suffer here in peace!"

"But I can't… I have nowhere to go. You _are_ my life. I love you."

She wanted to be alone with her madness. She couldn't bear him being near her. She was vile, dirty, stained black with sin and murder. She knew if he stayed he would die too, she would drag him down along with her into hell and that made her slip even closer to madness. She needed him to be free. He needed to be free of her. Out of love, she needed him to go to save him. He wasn't listening. Her heart was breaking beyond words.

"Please go," she pleaded.

"I love you. You need me. Don't say that." She could see his sadness turn toward anger. She was driving him insane also. He needed to leave immediately or it would be too late.

"I don't need you." She heard herself say and then wanted to die. Even though her mind was a tortured morass of emotions, those words she had never uttered aloud nor even thought in the darkest recesses of her heart for they were distinctly and unequivocally untrue. Her feelings for him had never wavered and he knew it.

"Uh," she heard his sharp intake of breath. She had wounded him too much. She wanted to die.

"Go, now." Her voice took on a hard edge. It was out of love. "I don't need you."

"But I love you," he pleaded one final time. She could see that this was the end.

"Well… I… I don't love you... I guess I was mistaken about that along with everything else."

She paused. She couldn't believe what she was saying. Inside she was screaming to take it back. To take it back or she would truly die, not just inside but completely. A slow death where there was nothing left.

In his eyes, she could see a new light grow, a new light that nearly eclipsed the light of his love. She fell back against the wall in fear. For a long moment he stood there, his jaw clenched so tight that she thought surely his teeth would shatter. He opened his mouth and when no words came out, he shut it again. Slowly he moved over to the cell door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it behind him, the door clanging shut with a boom of finality. Her world shattered.

"So be it," was all he said. His voice no longer held any emotion. Without a backward glance he strode out of sight.

_She began to scream_.

She sat bolt upright in bed, still screaming. The nightmares were too real. They had all come at once. They were almost too much to bear.

Suddenly she could feel arms around her, drawing her into a deep embrace. She tried to fight then, one fist connecting with the jaw of her assailant who let out a breath. "Stop," a voice choked. She recognized that voice. She turned.

"I am here," the voice said. "It is over."

It was Dernhelm.


	3. Chapter II: Airs of Confidence

**Chapter II: Airs of Confidence**

"Why did you come to me before visiting Lord Nasher?" She asked as they sat on the balcony overlooking a small garden in the Beggar's Nest. Her white sleeping shawl hung loosely about her copper skin; the air was surprisingly warm though the winter had not yet faded to spring.

She looks absolutely radiant, Dernhelm thought. The sun shining off her auburn hair, her powerful brown eyes, her muscles moving beneath the shear garment, the shape of her… His pulse beat a rapid tam-tam every time he looked at her. It had been too long since he had seen her – almost a week – and any time away seemed like an eternity. As he sat there watching her, studying her like he could not help but do, he redrew the painting of her beautiful essence on the canvas of his heart. He sighed.

"I came into the city and could feel you in distress. I told Daelan to tell Lord Nasher what we had learned and that I would be along shortly. I said I had important business to attend to first." He looked at her and sighed with that love-filled look of concern. "I couldn't concentrate knowing you were in distress."

It was amazing, she thought as he took up her hand and held it to his chest. Here the Hero of Neverwinter, Dernhelm the Great, was holding her hand looking so… small and _helpless_ as he expressed his worry for her… for _her_. It showed her once again the depth and complexity of this man – a side that he showed to so few – it showed her why she loved him. She gave him a smile of thankfulness, that private smile she gave only to him.

She already knew what the scouts had reported. After she had calmed from her nightmares, her inquisitive nature told her that for Dernhelm to be back so soon, the news must not be as he had expected. She was quick to wring the information out of him. She was as concerned as he over the news, concerned but not altogether afraid. They had weathered such storms before, storms where the simple fight became a tortured morass of intrigue and dark magic. They would weather this storm like they had all the others, and while it wouldn't be as simple as she had hoped, she was confident they would overcome this new threat.

She was afraid though, and it had nothing to do with revelations of the plotting of some sinister ogre mage. She was afraid because without Dernhelm even speaking, she knew what he was going to do. He had done it many times before – Boreen Darkblade, Valeron, Morag, Heurodis, the Valsharess – and had come out relatively unscathed, but this time, she couldn't afford to lose him. She was afraid of even a minute chance. They had started a new life, he had brought her back from insanity and though she knew that Ao would always be with her, she realized how fully and deeply she loved _him_… and needed _him_.

For the first time she became afraid for his safety. Though he was her strong man, her army, her coiled serpent, she wanted to protect him. And she knew she couldn't. His course was sound and reasonable and he was oh so stubborn, but she knew she couldn't change him, wouldn't change him because of the love she had for who he was. She was just afraid for him for the first time in her life, and she knew she would just have to live with that fear.

She wished she could go with him to relive their adventures of fighting side by side in the wastes of Cania… But now she was with child and she had duties as Knight General and for both reasons she must let him go without her, with only her prayers and the protection of their friends.

Dernhelm turned to her then and gathered her into a warm embrace, pulling her warm body against his own. He was still in his travel-stained ranger's garb and it made light smears of road dirt and grime on her white robe but she barely noticed, overcome with emotion.

"Ari, don't be afraid," Dernhelm said softly. "I can feel your fear, but you know I'm doing what is necessary." He kissed her forehead and then raised her chin so she could look into her eyes. Her beautiful brown irises were quivering. "I'll be fine… I wish you could come with me."

She nodded but said nothing. She wanted to cry but she held back. It wasn't out of pride – they cried openly in front of each other when they needed comforting – she knew there was no assuaging her fear and that she simply had to deal with it. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to Lord Ao, committing Dernhelm to His care.

She pulled away and looked at him with a gaze full of love. He reached out a hand and placed it on her belly; she covered his hand with one of her own. They sat there for a long moment drinking each other through their eyes and saying nothing. Nothing could be said. The hands that covered the product of their love intertwined.

At last she stood and her posture became more regal and strong like she had looked when he had first fallen in love with her and he could see she had locked her fear away. She let go of his hand. Before his eyes without changing at all, she became who she was for the rest of the world to see: Aribeth de Tylmarande, Knight General of Neverwinter and Paladin of Lord Ao.

"I'll see you at Castle Never in two hours. We have preparations to make," she said, and turned to get ready. Unexpectedly, she winked back over her shoulder and spanked her practically bare buttocks like a seedy tavern wench. Warrior-woman or no, she would always be his wife.

He laughed until his sides hurt.

He had been let in without any hassle. The gate guards knew him by name; informally this was _his_ city. As he walked down the corridors of Castle Never, he casually studied the trophies and murals accumulated over the last few centuries depicting the history of the Savage Frontier and the City of Neverwinter. It served to pass the time. He was in no hurry yet.

A rusted suit of armor next to a worn tome stood with reverence behind a glass enclosure, remnants of the founder of the city, Halueth Never. Beyond, several shining swords and armor were the only remaining artifacts of the first Neverwinter Nine, who at one time acted as the ruling council of Neverwinter. He had had a hand in recovering many of them and they held an almost familiar feel.

Dented helms taken from orc generals from previous uprisings stood in glass cases further down the hall, and the sheer number of them reinforced the urgency as well as the familiarity of the current situation – it had happened before and yet Neverwinter still stood. In another cabinet, the sash worn by Desther hung on a small hook, the words "A Traitor's End" carved beneath it.

Most of the artifacts were so obscure that without labels, few would remember why they were even on display. It mattered little because only the aristocrats, a few guards, and the cleaning staff ever got a chance to view them. A few pieces however, required special attention.

To his left, a young-looking tapestry drew his attention as it always did as he walked down the hall, and he turned to study it. The image was bisected in two, one side dark, filled with shadows and lighting, the other side light illuminated by a yellow-threaded sun. On the dark half, plague-ridden bodies lay strewn haphazardly about the streets of a ruined silver city. In the foreground, a beautiful yet shadow-shrouded female elf stood, a black blade that seemed to sap the light held in her right hand, a ball of dark shadow clenched in her left. Her look was terrifying, and shadowed tan-stitched people ran from the fury of her coming. In the background, a misty, almost obscured figure stood, with leathery, lizard-like skin, cords of shadow attached to the female elf, like strings on a marionette.

On the light half, the City of Neverwinter stood with its silvery stone walls blazing as if a living entity holding back the tide of darkness. The tan-and-silver armored soldiers held their swords defiantly against the shadow, gleaming in the holy sun. In the foreground, as if leading the army, stood four figures, one more forward and larger than the rest. The larger figure in the foreground held aloft a shining greatsword, its blade radiating a holy light. Around his head, a halo of light gleamed, and fire lit his footsteps.

It was the worst likeness of him that had ever been made, he thought, and he always grew angry when he saw it. It was like some twisted version of hero worship immensely exaggerating his influence in the events of the age, and giving him some completely false and holy character. He felt a moment of sorrow as he studied the other figures, recalling painful memories. The figures in the rear were clearly caricatures of Lord Nasher, Sharwyn, and Daelan Red Tiger. About their feet lay two bodies, those of Tomi Undergallows and Linu La'Neral.

When he had first seen it after returning to Neverwinter, he had wanted it destroyed. Lord Nasher had been surprised when he had unveiled it and Dernhelm had nearly knocked over the guards in an attempt to tear it from the wall. The figure reigning death from the dark half was none other than his own wife, Aribeth. He had tried to keep her protected from seeing it but she was adept at knowing when he was keeping something from her. When she found out, she immediately went to Castle Never. He remembered waiting as she spent hours standing before the tapestry, wanting to hold her and comfort her from the blow this mural must have caused as it brought up buried memories. After a long while, however, she turned to him and told him she wanted the hanging to stay.

At first surprised, he had started to object, but she had calmed him with her words. He could remember them clearly.

"_I want this painting to remain. It speaks the truth, at the core, albeit covered by artistic exaggeration. It is history of which I was a part. It does not hurt me anymore now that I have Ao's forgiveness, but it serves as a reminder about how wide is the path that leads to destruction."_

A single tear escaped from his left eye as he closed his eyes remembering. He sighed. They had been through so much, both of them. With a prayer of thanksgiving to Ao, he turned and continued to walk down the hall, composing himself as he always had to when viewing the wall-hanging.

As he approached the door to the meeting chamber, a black panther sat outside the door as if on guard, at rest on its hind legs as it kept vigil on the hall. Vaash the panther had been a gift from Dernhelm to Lord Nasher upon returning from Waterdeep, much to Lord Nasher's surprise. Dernhelm had given it to him as a symbol of the time Lord Nasher had kindly treated and protected Aribeth while she was in prison. This panther was a vicious guardian to those who would threaten. It had been the perfect gift and Lord Nasher and grown quite attached to it. It followed him everywhere and Dernhelm had even once caught him rolling on the floor wrestling playfully with Vaash, but both pretended as if nothing had happened. Dernhelm laughed, remembering Lord Nasher's embarrassment.

Vaash tilted his head up and Dernhelm scratched it behind the ears; it rumbled with pleasure. As a ranger, he loved all types of animals, and they likewise seemed to have a general affection for him. Dernhelm gave the panther one last pat on the head and reached past him for the door to the meeting chamber.

Suddenly Dernhelm stopped, sniffed the air, and then he caught the panther by the muzzle, turning its head so he could look into its eyes.

"Good," Dernhelm said to the panther with a grin. "But not good enough. Try again next time, Nathyrra."

The panther growled at him, a teeth-bared snarl that remarkably sounded like a laugh and before his very eyes, the panther began to change and grow. Within moments a small drow stood before him, her snow white hair in a glimmering tumble about flawless black skin. Her pale pink lips were fixed in a smile as she regarded her taller friend, her chin resting in his hand. Dernhelm released her as if burned and quickly averted his eyes. She always liked to tease him about his modesty; she wasn't wearing a stitch. Her body was decidedly shapely and Dernhelm could barely help but be aroused, but he trained himself to stare past her.

"Like what you see?" she asked demurely, swaying her hips and shaking her small breasts at him. She loved to torment him; she truly had no shame.

That's not correct, Dernhelm thought. Her culture views nakedness differently than ours, and she knows it. That's why she torments me so. His eyes were boring holes in the wall beyond her. He tried to keep his features from showing any emotion but she must have seen the stern set of his jaw. She laughed, a sound like sparkling water falling over a step in the riverbed. It was musical.

With a flick of her fingers, a leather robe appeared about her shoulders covering her from head to foot.

"How do you do it?" she asked, partially still laughing at his heated cheeks, and partly filled with curiosity. "That polymorph spell should have been perfect… You can look now."

"Indeed," Dernhelm said, cautiously fixing her with a glare which finally softened into a humorous grin. "It was _almost_ perfect."

"How so?"

"You didn't smell like a cat that licks itself clean," he said touching his nose conspiratorially. "It's all in the nose." He chuckled.

She sighed.

He turned to her and grinned. "Also, Vaash doesn't have lavender eyes."

He laughed as he heard her curse, loudly. Clapping her on the back, he opened the door and stepped into the chamber.

The chamber consisted of a large rectangular table with twelve chairs around it, five on each long side and one on each end. Torches in iron stanchions with mirrors behind them provided ample light for the large room, and two guards stood at each of the room's two doors. As he passed between the guards on his side of the room, he clapped them both on the back in greeting, having fought alongside them when Desther's false Helmites stole the cure for the plague.

On the near side of the table, four of the Neverwinter Nine sat with their backs to him, a chair set aside for invited guests in their middle. On the opposite side, five of the lords sat facing him with grim looks. At one end on a slightly elevated platform sat Lord Nasher, his long grey hair loosely braided and hanging over his left shoulder as he reviewed some papers. The other end of the table was reserved for the Knight General, Aribeth, who had not yet arrived. They all turned to look at him when he entered with Nathyrra.

In one corner of the room Daelan Red Tiger stood talking with Sharwyn who had recently been named the unofficial spymaster for the City of Neverwinter. Dernhelm officially held the title but Sharwyn had the real contacts, acquired over years of being a bard. Keeping him in the fore allowed her to work more effectively in the shadows.

It was the second person talking with Daelan that drew his attention, however. A tall female nearly six feet in height stood dressed in a loose fitting white tunic and pants, a long knife with an ornate hilt belted at her waist. As he entered the room, she gazed in his direction.

The woman staring at him was human, in her earliest thirties, with a squarish jaw, and deep, fierce azure eyes. It was the eyes that captivated him. Eyes of determination and strength, the blue irises nearly crackled with electricity. Her skin was suntanned, a copper color that fit her face perfectly. He could tell that she spent much time outdoors. She was beautiful in a rugged, natural way, like a snow-covered mountain, all craggy peaks and peaceful snow. She reminded him of Aribeth, of the strength he had first seen in her, a proud bearing and indomitable will. He could feel it in this woman.

And he could also sense the subtle pulse of the Harper bond, that magical connection forged between all fraternal members to encourage unity and to protect against spies and false claimants.

On her head was a helmet seemingly of pure gold with a small bridge that came down to protect her nose. Though simply worked, with the outline of a dragon on the bridge, it identified her as a first tier graduate of the military academy in Phlan – no small accomplishment. The helm fit flush with the sides of her head, and light brown hair poked out from beneath.

But then, his good-natured smile faltered.

Her face was grim and her eyebrows were fixed in a scowl. He could feel her grimness even through the Harper bond – an amazing feat as the bond could not carry anything but the subtle identification and the strongest of emotions. He sighed. While he had never met this woman before, he felt a strange kinship for her as he did for all members of his order; therefore he was particularly affected by her dour attitude. He was about to introduce himself, but his attention was quickly diverted from the woman as Lord Nasher spoke.

"Dernhelm, at last you are here. I trust everything is fine?" his deep baritone echoing in the large room. He stood from his chair and walked over to Dernhelm. Lord Nasher possessed a mane of silver grey hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and similarly grey mustaches and eyebrows. Anyone could tell from his bearing, however, that this man was still strong both in arms and in character. A breastplate of gold and silver covered a shirt of chainmail and a long cloak of azure blue was chained about his neck with gold chains. A broadsword hung from his left hip. Never one for creature comforts, Nasher routinely wore his battle-garb – albeit heavily ornamented, expected for one of his station – whenever he had the chance and especially for city matters, fearing that a life of linens may soften his adventurer's muscles.

Dernhelm genuflected before Lord Nasher, face to the floor, before speaking.

"Everything is fine my lord. At least, that which I needed to attend to before coming here. I apologize for the delay."

"Nonsense," Lord Nasher said in a friendly tone. Grabbing Dernhelm by the shoulder he made him rise. "Bowing is for servants, not old friends. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"As many times as I come and see you," Dernhelm replied with a grin as he looked into the warm smile of his friend. They shook hands, Lord Nasher's gold backed gauntlets providing an odd contrast to the worn hunting gloves Dernhelm wore.

Lord Nasher took Dernhelm by the elbow and led him back to the Harper. Her azure eyes regarded him impassively. "Might I introduce to you Tarlin Misonere, High Courier, newly arrived out of Icewind Dale. She happened to be passing through after bringing missives to Bryn Shander. She inquired at the palace if we needed any safe correspondence and I figured it might be beneficial for her to be at this meeting."

Dernhelm smiled because he believed not a word of it. Her presence was too coincidental in light of their circumstances for her to just "happen to pass through," and the fact that he could sense the Harper bond in her, as could Lord Nasher, gave it the lie. While it was possible that a High Courier had also sworn allegiance to the Harpers – Nathaniel Sethan had done so thirty years previously to their organization's great benefit – it was such a rare occurrence that he would most assuredly have heard of it.

Curiosity therefore kindled within him to know the purpose of her 'coincidental' presence; he suspected, however, that such answers would be slow in coming as they always were. In any case, he was unconcerned. Their common affiliation precluded any malevolent intent on her part, and if Nasher saw a need to safeguard her true identity from the others in the room, he would continue the ruse in his typical relaxed and jocular manner.

"How is old Jensin Brent?" Dernhelm asked jokingly. "Content with his little piece of paradise amidst the icy hell of the frozen north?"

"That he is," she replied flatly, her voice strong and sure as a command without a hint of emotion.

"And what color is it now, I wonder? Mauve?" Dernhelm continued the jibe. For some reason, he found himself intent on breaking her dour demeanor.

"It was pastel yellow and orange not two months ago, but who knows what changes it will go through before I return his way?"

"Oh, assuredly," Nasher interjected.

But Dernhelm was not finished.

"His taste in color is as bad as his taste in women," Dernhelm said, his arms extending quite far from his sides to give the impression of corpulence. He lowered his brow and pursed his lips like an ape. Inside, he couldn't help but laugh at his own joke, but she was having none of it. The only outward change to her face was a slight squinting of her eyes as if she was actually angered.

Lord Nasher, however, clapped him on the back with a laugh – he knew the truth of Dernhelm's jape – and then looked about the room. "And where is that wonderful wife of yours? We need to get down to business."

"I am here my lord," Aribeth said as she entered the room, the guards snapping to attention as she passed. She was clad from head to toe in her form-fitting white leather suit with a high collar, the garb she wore when conducting official business with the nobility. As she walked, every muscle in her body stood defined and it was hard not to be awed by her physical strength and radiance of determination. About her shoulders was a sky blue cape that billowed behind her as she walked. It was hooked about her neck with a silver chain. Ashalandar, her longsword, was belted in a silver scabbard at her left hip, and was balanced by a short sword that glowed with a soft white light on her right. Her auburn hair fell in a gleaming wave about her shoulders.

Dernhelm could not help but be aroused. Though she was not far enough along for the bulge of her pregnancy to be reflected in the garb, this would not have affected his desire in the slightest as it did some men. His wife was an image of pure beauty, power, and sensuality. He had once commented that the outfit could do nothing but arouse the men and that he didn't find it appropriate for her to wear it where others could see. She responded by saying the things that noble ladies were supposed to wear did nothing more than make them objects, 'a pair of breasts that could talk;' this dress showed off her cleavage as much as it did her strength, and as fit as it showed her to be, it gave most men pause. As Dernhelm watched her walk to them, her muscles moving beneath the taut cowhide, he couldn't help but agree. Any man that considered her an object would only do so once.

"_Plus," _she commented once,_ "If the enemy… or the politician… is looking at my bosom, they aren't looking at my sword."_

"Now that we are all here, we can begin to discuss the preparations for the attacks that are sure to come," said Lord Nasher.

"I have plenty of questions. But, before we get too much involved in discussions we could at least sit down and get comfortable. I imagine we will be here for a while." He guided them to their seats.

Two extra chairs were brought in. Dernhelm sat in one next to his wife and Daelan took up a position behind him to his right, his huge double-axe resting against the wall close to hand. The other was placed next to Lord Nasher for Tarlin, the woman still as grim as when they had first met. Sharwyn took up the position between four members of the Nine. Wine and cheese were brought for all the assembled and soon they were sitting comfortably. Formalities were always needed when nobility was involved – good food and drink the only real comfort in which Nasher indulged.

Suddenly, Dernhelm looked around the room. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen Nathyrra since they had entered. Finally he saw her. She was curled up by the fireplace, her black feline body sprawled in apparent sleep. As he glanced in her direction her head came up and she winked at him in an uncatlike way. He noticed her eyes were no longer lavender. He hid a smirk behind a raised wineglass.

She knew that although the others considered her a friend, they were still decidedly uncomfortable around her because she was a drow, and long-standing prejudices die hard. He knew she wanted to be here for the meeting but it would likely cause too many waves or make her feel too distressed, so it was easier for her to be present incognito. As he sat there, he burned to know what she had done with the real Vaash. He figured it would be equally humorous.

Finally, his appetite temporarily sated, Lord Nasher stood and began to pace. His adventuring blood wouldn't let him sit still for long, and it certainly did not permit him to get old and weak.

"So a force is gathering with what appears to be plans to besiege my city," he began, wasting no more time with pleasantries or preambles. He was an efficient commander. And he allowed only the minimum of formalities. "They are making battering rams for a force much greater than their number and are being led by an ogre mage of no small power able to overcome their fear of taboos and holed up in a cave in a dormant _volcano_. Did I leave anything out?" he said with a sarcastic tone.

"No, that just about covers it." Dernhelm responded with an equally sardonic reply.

"Any idea who they are building all of these rams and siege works for?"

"At the moment no and that concerns me. My scouts are looking into it. I believe they have a larger force but are very good at hiding it. We should uncover it soon. On the other hand, this phantom force may be tied to rumors of unusual quietness in the Spine of the World. It could be that the Crag orcs are making weapons for a force that will come out of the Spine of the World – like in the Horde Wars. Unlike the Wars, this one would involve magic. That could explain it. We're considering every possibility."

"Wonderful," Lord Nasher said acerbically.

"These new developments put Luskan in danger."

"Luskan. Luskan! Who cares about that wretched hive of warlocks and pirates? I say let them-" Lord Nasher stopped then relaxed. "You're right. You're right." He threw up his hands. Nasher was also a man of long-held emotions and a barely restrained temper. "We should be concerned about them as well.

"I trust you have already sent word for assistance from our allies?" he continued.

"Indeed. I sent word to Khelben Arunsun of the situation and I am sure he'll send troops. I suspect Helm's Hold will also come to our aid. I would estimate a bolster by two to three thousand troops at least."

"Good. Good." Lord Nasher continued to pace. Nasher wouldn't have expected any less. They were both veterans of many such conflicts. "That would make a sizeable garrison that will need to be fed and supplied." He tapped his lip in thought.

"While you were gone I forced the evacuation of all but Neverwinter Landing and we have completed repairs on the eastern wall. We have five thousand standing troops given the recruits we have from the farmers.

"Daelan says you estimate two months before the siege begins."

"That's what my scouts suggest, yes, as a maximum. They of course can't be certain since the numbers don't add up. But the rams send a clear message. I certainly wouldn't be surprised."

"Nor would I. Getting all of those troops here – especially from Waterdeep – may take that full time." He continued to pace. Like Dernhelm, he didn't like the way this was shaping up. Defense plans were being laid to function like a well-greased machine, but he knew a host of problems could arise on their end, even without any surprises by the enemy.

"Later today I am going to tell the engineers to speed up reconstruction efforts on our trebuchet and oil cauldrons. I'll also see if I can enlist the aid of Durga and Marrok at the Shining Knights to produce more specialized armaments for the city. Anything else you would suggest?" Lord Nasher asked.

"Not from my end, no," Dernhelm replied, as satisfied as Nasher for the moment. He sat back and continued to nurse his wine.

"Lady Aribeth?"

Lapsing in to a lecturing tone, she began ticking points off on her fingers as if reciting a plan long thought out.

"Since we have to consider these orcs well-disciplined, I would leave only about one thousand in reserve – preferably the militia – working in concert with the Academy's engineers. Establishing an effective shield wall should be our top priority with the cavalry in support. Even if we assume the orcs are more disciplined than normal, that would seem to be the best option against a larger force. Being conservative at the potential numbers they could throw at us, I'd say we'd need to purchase about three hundred more horses from Waterdeep. I would advocate giving more funds to the fletchers; as Neverwinter Wood is too dangerous now, this would require us to move our timbering efforts to the Charwood."

Dernhelm could see Tarlin and several of the Neverwinter Nine nodding in agreement to Aribeth's pronouncements. He glanced at Tarlin as if to warn her about giving away too much of knowledge that a High Courier should lack, but she was concentrating on Aribeth. For some reason, Tarlin seemed to be sizing her up.

Nasher considered her suggestions thoughtfully. "I'll sign the necessary disbursements." The he added, "How goes the training of the militia?"

"Slowly. They are not used to fighting in organized groups, but I am confident Commander Sebile will have them ready in time."

"Has anyone talked to Eltoora?" Lord Bornhald, one of the Nine, asked. A middle-aged man with wide, muscular shoulders, and a block-shaped head sporting a short mane of brown hair flecked with gray, Lord Fiador Bornhald exuded a cocky bravado even at rest. It was strange for a man of his size to be lounging so casually in his seat, his wine glass held nonchalantly in his right hand. One could almost picture him with a leg dangling over the chair arm if Nasher would indulge such unceremoniousness.

"I will do that this afternoon," Sharwyn replied, smiling. Lord Bornhald was completely likeable for all his airy bluster. "She will provide ample wizards and magical accoutrement to fill our needs, I'm sure."

"Good. Then it seems everything is progressing to the best of our abilities," Lord Nasher responded. "Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?"

"We of course need up to date information about the orcs' movements and reconnaissance about this ogre mage. I am wondering what you plan to be doing during the coming weeks, Dernhelm. Do you need more scouts? When and how often should we expect reports?" asked Lord Wingold. A man approaching sixty, but still strong and confident like Nasher, Lord Agrimar Wingold was an affable gentleman, an unpretentious aristocrat that inspired confidence and camaraderie and was Dernhelm's closest friend among the Nine. His hair, remarkably black considering his age, sported white wings at the temples, giving him an air of nobility.

Dernhelm rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes in the way he did when he didn't want to say something. "My scouts will come to you periodically, but I will actually be out of contact with you for several weeks. I have something else important I must attend to."

At this several of the Nine sat upright and began to talk excitedly over themselves. Though they trusted him, nobles were always an excitable lot and this didn't conform with the plans in their heads.

"You are going to leave us? Now?" Lord Bornhald said with exasperation. Clutching his glass forcefully as he gave Dernhelm his full attention, the half-elf could believe that the crystal stem of the goblet was near to shattering.

"Where are you going?" asked Lord Wingold. His face suggested he suspected the answer, but needed confirmation.

"What could be of greater importance?" Lord Antonin Handlebach almost shouted. Always the most excitable, at thirty-two and the youngest of the Nine, he had the appearance of a man with something to prove. A practical master of the sword and shield, he lacked the subtler skills of diplomacy, rational planning, and common sense. These, coupled with a boyish face that held only a patchy beard, made him seem a prepubescent idiot. Dernhelm had a natural dislike for the man.

"My lords," interrupted Lord Nasher with a gruff voice, in effect scolding them not to act like children in tantrum by reminding them of their station. This restored a semblance of order. "I am sure Dernhelm has a perfectly reasonable explanation; it has to be something of utmost importance." He fixed Dernhelm with a critical eye as if to say, _"You do, don't you? This had better be good."_

"Indeed," Dernhelm replied. "Since many elements of the situation are unknown, I am personally leading an expedition to get detailed information from the heart of the enemy territory. We need to uncover their missing numbers. I-"

"Don't let him fool you," Aribeth cut in with a warm smile for her husband, laying her hand on his arm. "He likes to beat around the bush. He plans to go and kill this ogre mage."

Dernhelm nodded somewhat sheepishly.

At this, Lord Nasher and the Nine visibly relaxed and many of them now wore grins. Lord Bornhald even barked a laugh.

"Ho, ho," he rubbed his hands together menacingly and his eyes shone with delight. "This is great news. This ogre won't know what hit him." An outsider would have thought by the sudden expressions of utter calm on the faces of the assembled lords that Aribeth had just pronounced that the war was over. The lords were quite familiar with Dernhelm's exploits, having been saved from the plague by him almost seventeen years ago, and seeing him lead them to victory in numerous other "wars." They were confident that if he was going to go see to this enemy personally – the one behind the orc uprising – that the war may very well vanish with a puff of smoke.

Dernhelm eschewed such confidence. He never liked viewing an undertaking such as this as 'open and shut.' As each enemy was different, he forced himself to consider that successes in the past provided no future guarantees. And, as much as he believed he could kill this ogre mage, he could not – would not – allow others to base decisions on any such self-assurance. He regarded the lords with a grim face. They all quieted down.

"I will take Thurgan Marst and Aniril Galwen. They will bring you reports whenever they can but you can understand, _my lords_, that this is not as easy as just spying on enemy positions. We will be in the heart of their territory. They may just be orcs, but given the unknowns they have presented us with, we can't rely on them 'just being orcs,'" he said in a flat voice, devoid of emotion.

Several of them took his rebuke as it was intended, but while they seemed to have soaked up his tone, a few still wore relaxed expressions. Lord Bornhald was even yet smiling.

"Who else will you take on this expedition?" asked Lord Nasher.

"Daelan Red Tiger, Nathyrra, and Davorin Galwen, plus Thurgan and Aniril, of course. I prefer my team small." Daelan smiled and flexed his muscles as if to show just why _he _should be going. Dernhelm could tell the lords certainly agreed with him; they all sat back a bit in their chairs though Daelan was still seated. As for Nathyrra, he presumed they were relieved that she would be somewhere else.

"Surely you could use more help than that?" Lord Nasher inquired.

Chuckling to himself as a plan suddenly came to him, he said "Oh, and I should like to take the High Courier along… if she is willing?"

Aribeth's eyebrows rose and yet she said nothing. He knew she could sense his internal jocularity, but he also knew she trusted his judgment.

Tarlin, however was unfazed, her face grim as always. She simply nodded.

Feeling the need to justify himself and to open the door to make a joke at her expense, he added "She may be useful for relaying messages."

Her eyes narrowed but she remained silent. Several of the Lords nodded in agreement. High Couriers were as exceptional at fighting as they were at delivering secure messages. They had to be at the price paid to employ their services.

"Or beating the enemy to death with her wonderful personality," he added under his breath.

Clearing his throat, Dernhelm continued. "That makes seven. We will need supplies. Eltoora will teleport us into the Wood at daybreak tomorrow."

"Teleport? But isn't that too much of a risk? You don't know the exact positions of the enemy within the Wood nor the terrain," Lord Handlebach asked nervously.

"I sent Thurgan with Aniril and Davorin ahead to the Wood with a magical… beacon, if you will. I instructed them to clear a space for a party of no more than five. When they activate the beacon I'll know the way is safe and Eltoora can teleport us directly there." The assembled lords regarded him with looks of incredulity. They had never heard of such a device, and certainly could not conceive that such a tool existed in Neverwinter.

"I had Eltoora develop it after years of learning how best to move groups in enemy territory unnoticed."

Aribeth smiled. Her husband was full of surprises… and ingenious gadgets.

"Well then," Lord Nasher said calmly. "Let's get to it."

Hours later in a small workshop across the city, a heavily muscled blacksmith stood in front of his furnace, his arms clasped across his chest. A cloaked figure stood before him with hood pulled far forward. The smith had no aversion to dealing with cloaked clientele – many buyers of his 'special goods' wanted to avoid attracting attention – but often he had disagreements with nature of the goods requested. Such was the case now.

"You want me to make this do _what_?" Marrok asked skeptically.

"Explode on impact. Is that too difficult?" the other responded gruffly.

"No," Marrok replied, with a flash of anger. "It's not _what_ you want it to do it's the amount of powder you want me to pack into it. Do you realize how big of an explosion this little thing will cause?"

"I'd imagine it will be _quite_ large."

"It will be _huge!_" Marrok said exasperated. He couldn't even separate his hands far enough to emphasize his point.

"The bigger the better," the customer replied.

The large purse sat beside Marrok on the table enticing him. He stared at his customer for a long moment. At last Marrok sighed. "Ok, it's your money…" "…And your funeral." he added under his breath.

It was mid-afternoon when Dernhelm entered the Trade of Blades. He was looking for someone. He had already been to see Eltoora and Marrok. Everything was prepared and in two hours they would be underway. This was his last stop. As the time drew near, he was starting to grow anxious; he wanted this mystery solved as soon as possible. He like tallies to add up and this one was still missing the tens column. As he mulled the possibilities over in his mind, the words of the bard playing in the corner drifted over to him.

"…And old boss belched a fiery blast

And sliced the knight in twain

And gobbled him up with a mighty gulp

And no one ever saw the knight _a-gain_…"

The bard paused in his singing and put on a quizzical expression.

"Well, that's not entirely true," he said to himself out loud as he scratched his scaly head. "Old Boss got indigestion. The armor didn't set well on his stomach. Old Boss sat and moaned until eventually he passed the armor." Everyone laughed. "…so, everyone _did_ see the knight again. Sort of." The room erupted in raucous laughter.

He couldn't believe his ears. This was the last person he had expected to see. "Deekin!" Dernhelm shouted at his old friend. He could barely get out the word, he too was holding in his sides laughing.

At the sound of his name, the bard turned his head to look at the man standing in the doorway.

"Bawss!" Deekin dropped his lute and was moving in a flash, his tiny frame dodging about guests startled at the sudden transition. No one had expected him to move and certainly not that fast. Accidentally catching a mug on a nearby table with one of his wings, he swept it onto the floor with a crash. Surprised by the noise, he jumped and caught one of the ceiling beams, then used it to back-flip right into Dernhelm's arms.

With a smile that split his draconian face ear to ear he grinned up at Dernhelm. A draconian smile would be considered the stuff of nightmares to anyone _but_ Dernhelm.

"Deekin?" he said and then let out a trailer of smoke from his small jaws as he belched straight into the half-elf's face. The smell was so awful and direct that Dernhelm dropped Deekin in surprise, staggering backward waving his hands in front of his nose. This proved too much for the guests; the suddenness of Deekin's movements coupled with seeing someone of Dernhelm's prominence staggered by a draconian belch caused grown men to actually fall to the floor laughing. Even the barkeep was laughing hard enough that he pounded the table, the broken mug forgotten.

"By Ao, what _have_ you been eating?" Dernhelm asked but Deekin just kept smiling.

"No. Don't answer that," he said hurriedly.

As he regained his composure, Dernhelm couldn't help but laugh. It felt like the old times all over again. Unintended antics that diffused his anxiety even if the situation was dark as midnight. He chuckled again to himself and cautiously picked up Deekin. "As long as you don't _fart_," he said in a loud voice. The gathered men shrank away in mock horror and then slapped each other on the back and continued to laugh loudly as they drank. Tales of Dernhelm and Deekin's exploits began to be told around the tavern.

Dernhelm continued to chuckle as he carried Deekin to a nearby table and plunked him down on a bench. "Deekin, _what_ are you doing here?" Dernhelm blurted out, as he sat on the bench across from him. "It's good to see you, but last I had heard you had been named king of the kobolds. What are you doing in Neverwinter?"

At the question Deekin tried to hide his head behind a wing and if it weren't impossible for a kobold's leathery face to make such an expression, Dernhelm would have thought he looked sheepish.

"Deekin _be_ king of kobolds," he said, still trying to hide his head. "But Deekin needed to come to Neverwinter to be safe."

"Safe? From whom?" asked Dernhelm, suddenly on guard, hackles rising. Had the orcs made war on Deekin's folk?

"Kobolds." Deekin turned and gave Dernhelm a weak smile. It was enough to shatter the half-elf's dark thoughts; he began to laugh. "Deekin king, but sometimes not very popular. Other kobolds don't understand. They say Deekin too smart. Sometimes Deekin do stuff for their own good but they get scared. And a scared kobold be an angry kobold. They try and hang poor Deekin. There be big riots. Deekin needs to evacuate the city from time to time. They need time to cool down and think about it. Usually takes several weeks." He looked about as if to see if anyone was listening and then leaned closer conspiratorially. "They not very bright."

At this, Dernhelm began to laugh all the harder and thump the table. Several of the patrons looked up and began to chuckle as well, mainly just laughing at the size difference between Dernhelm and Deekin. Deekin's snout barely stuck above the table.

Deekin looked at "Bawss" quizzically not knowing what he said that was so funny and after a few seconds, not being able to figure it out, he began to laugh as well, a tiny reptilian-sounding noise between a hiss and the sound of someone blowing their nose.

Following the death of Mephistopheles, Deekin had gone back to the kobolds because he said he had needed some "time off" to organize his notes and start the new book about Dernhelm's adventures. When he had arrived, the kobolds were so awed by him, not because of his fame or the extensive wealth he had returned with but because he could form almost a complete sentence without having to stop, think, and then take a nap, that they instantly made him king… that is, after they got done hiding from him.

When Dernhelm had first heard, he couldn't speak for about an hour he had laughed so hard. Thinking about it later, he was so thankful for this fortuitous course of events. For the survival of the kobold people, this was the best thing that could have happened; Deekin _was_ the smartest and he possessed an intuition and wisdom most did not see (including Dernhelm _and_ Deekin himself, most of the time).

"So, you are in Neverwinter waiting for this to settle down?"

"Yes. And to perform some new ballads," Deekin said with a grin.

Dernhelm clasped his little friend's hand as a show of support.

"Do you know the problems Neverwinter has been having recently?" Dernhelm asked Deekin as they sucked back some mugs of ale that a barmaid had brought them. On the house, of course.

Deekin nodded. "With the orcses? Yes, Deekin knows. Nasty things, the orcses. Always destroying, always making war… and always breeding," he said with distaste. Deekin was kind-hearted but he had a surprising hatred for the orcs. They had made war on the kobolds more times than anyone could remember.

"And you know about the ogre mage?"

Deekin cocked his head to the side the way he did when he was confused. In a low voice, Dernhelm relayed to him all of the information they had received. When he had finished, Deekin sat back, his eyes closed to watchful slits as he mulled the information over.

Finally he looked up, and with surprising insight he said "Ogre mage must be powerful to do this."

"Indeed," Dernhelm replied. "Or something else is going on. Either way, I don't like it." He paused. "I am going to check the situation out."

In response, Deekin belched out another cloud of acrid smoke and began to laugh. Dernhelm leaned quickly out of the blast zone. He moved his mug to make sure it wasn't affected either. That'd be a waste of quality beer.

"Boss is going to go kill the ogre mage, isn't he?"

Dernhelm simply sat back and laughed. "Am I _that_ predictable?" he asked with a grin.

"Change is not in Bawss' nature," Deekin replied and laughed until more smoke came out, his mouth lit by an orange glow.

They sat for a while talking about old times as Dernhelm waited for the one he had come to find. Finally, he could wait no longer.

"I have to go, Deekin," Dernhelm said and stood to leave. "Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"Deekin?" he replied, his head cocked.

"Since you're here, could you keep watch over Aribeth? Just say you were back in town and wanted to hang around for a while. I am sure she'd love to have you around. And it keeps you safe in the castle. This helps you and me both out."

Deekin grinned. "Ok, Bawss."

"Oh, by the way. Nice ballad," Dernhelm laughed as he walked out the door.

Deekin beamed with pride.

As he walked down the street back to the Beggar's Nest he was lost in thought as he usually was, thinking enough for three people in half the time. He couldn't help but wonder where his contact was. He had talked with Deekin in the Trade of Blades for nearly two hours and the man had never showed. Dernhelm however was never truly lost in thought, always paying close attention to the world around, a necessity in his line of work. He would avoid walking too close to alleys, preferring the middle of the street, and would check behind him both with his eyes and his senses. Therefore it came as a bit of a surprise when the long knife pressed up against his throat from behind.

"You are getting old, Dernhelm," the voice said. "Old and slow."

"Coming from you, that's a compliment," Dernhelm replied. No one on the street seemed to notice the two of them; in any case, he was relaxed. He chuckled, "As long as fat is not added to that list. Aribeth wouldn't approve. She'd restrict my beer intake for sure."

"What do you want me for?" the voice asked with an amused tone. The knife didn't move from his throat.

"Why weren't you in the Trade of Blades?"

"I had a run-in with the barkeep's daughter the other day and let's just say the place would be a little hot for me. I figured I'd be scarce in that place for a long while." The other laughed.

Dernhelm didn't question him about it. He didn't want to know. "I am going away for a few weeks. I need you to protect Aribeth."

"Off to hunt an ogre," the other asked with a laugh. Dernhelm wasn't about to ask how the other knew. "Is the city about to get more dangerous?" Incredulity filled the other's voice. The other didn't consider much as truly "dangerous."

"Not that I know of. I am just not taking any chances. You know how I operate. Think you can handle that?"

"She won't even know I am there."

"Better for you. She'd kill you if she did."

The voice chuckled. "She'll be even more ruthless with _you_ if she found out you decided she needed protection."

"True indeed," Dernhelm replied with a grin. He could just imagine what her reaction would be. He would be dodging mugs and wash basins for a week. _If_ he lived that long.

"It will be as you say," the other said. The knife retracted as suddenly as it had appeared. Whipping around, Dernhelm looked but as he suspected he could see no one but the ordinary commoners walking about their daily business. Dernhelm liked him. He never beat around the bush. And he was about the best agent Dernhelm had ever hired.


	4. Chapter III: The Hunt

**Chapter III: The Hunt**

Dernhelm stepped out of thin air into the small clearing. No glowing portals, flashes of light, or twinkling music heralded his coming. He preferred to remain unnoticed. He wore a suit of armor the color of a weathered oak tree and his golden helmet was smeared with mud and dust to mask any reflection. His greatsword stuck up above his left shoulder and a ragged cloak made of wolf fur hung over his back. As he stepped through the portal, he dropped into a crouch and sidled to the bole of a large lodgepole pine, his eyes scanning the woods as he took in his surroundings. It took him mere moments to find Davorin and Thurgan Marst though they would have been invisible to the casual observer, all but hidden among the underbrush as they kept watch over the clearing. Several more seconds revealed Aniril sitting high in a willow some hundred paces distant.

The flat patch of nothing from which Dernhelm had issued soon disgorged the head of a large battle axe, and a haft that apparently grew from nothing, quickly followed by a grumbling Daelan who had to duck as if from some unseen obstacle. Eltoora could only make the portal so big to avoid announcing their presence; unfortunately, magic didn't take large half-orcs into account when defining its limitations. He was covered head to toe in a large, brown and green hooded cloak to aid him in blending in with the forest – as much as a huge, pig-faced barbarian could ever blend.

On his heels, Nathyrra emerged in her leather cloak, her small frame making an odd contrast to Daelan's bulk. In her right hand, she bore a gnarled wooden staff with a big knob at the top fitted with a fist-sized sphere of crystal. Her hood was pulled far forward to protect herself from the sun – drow and the sun-bathed surface world did not easily get along.

Bringing up the rear, Tarlin appeared in a naturally-colored cloak akin to the one Daelan wore – fitting her comparatively modest size more easily – a longsword belted in a leather scabbard on her right hip. On her right arm she carried a large rectangular shield, plain brown except for a border of small studs. The golden helmet atop her head she also kept masked with mud.

In under thirty seconds, they had traveled more than twenty miles from the city. They had arrived in the Neverwinter Wood.

Suddenly a small pop, emitting from the air to Dernhelm's right, signaled the closure of the portal. The sound echoed off of the trees for a moment before dying in the underbrush. Everyone grimaced and scanned their surroundings, the scouts casting about with bows at the ready.

The clearing was small, hemmed in by towering pines and the giant northern willows which flourished in the warm, damp Neverwinter Valley. Fallen trees and underbrush littered the forest floor and the ground was covered by a deep carpet of needles. The Neverwinter River burbled slowly off to their left and a great northern tern glided overhead as it sought its prey among the waters. The scene was picturesque, perhaps even idyllic, but was completely ignored except for one crucial fact: the forest was empty save for them.

"Why does all such magic end with a noise?" Dernhelm cursed to himself. He would have to discuss the fine-tuning of the spell with Eltoora.

Their plan was simple. They would head east out of the lowlands, leaving the river and its valley behind as they wound their way up into the southern Crags. Then they would turn north, climbing over unused passes between the high peaks, descending once again into the Neverwinter Valley just south of Mt. Hotenow. Their journey would take about one week.

This path had been chosen because the orc encampments and logging operations were clustered along the forested slopes of the lower valley. Though traveling upriver would be the most direct route as it led straight to the foot of the volcano, the last thing they needed was to run into the enemy's main force.

With hand gestures he gave his scouts orders: bows held at the ready, they descended from the trees and took up positions around the party, Dernhelm in the lead, flanked by Aniril and Davorin, and Thurgan Marst bringing up the rear to cover their tracks. Nathyrra stood in the center, ready to defend them all with her magic.

In this way they traveled at a trot all that day through the night until dawn the following day before calling a halt. The pace Dernhelm had set had been rapid, but not impossible and no one complained; his companions were used to these extended marches, and so it seemed was Tarlin.

The Neverwinter Wood held special dangers that appeared during the night and Dernhelm figured it best for them all to be alert; in the Wood, the orcs were the least of their problems. Dernhelm's half-elven vision allowed them to travel even in the deepest darkness, something the orcs could not do as effectively, and Dernhelm's cloak gave off a small glow visible only to his companions; it allowed them to follow his movements but not wholly destroy their night vision. Traveling in this way allowed them to cover a large amount of ground.

By the time of the first halt, they were high up on the side of the Neverwinter Valley, the river a tiny ribbon winding its way west to the sea. No orc encampments could be seen from their vantage point, but the tall trees prevented viewing long distances. They set up camp at the bole of a large pine, its branches bending under the weight of needles. The air was cool, but not cold, a gift from the moderating effect of the warm, volcanically heated river below, and a fog clung to the valley walls, the sun not high enough yet to burn it off.

In the summer, this valley was sweltering and humid, much like a tropical jungle, but precipitation was light, leaving the area generally miserable. They did not complain, however. The air would grow colder as they left the protection of the valley, and the vegetation would thin and eventually disappear as they reached the high elevation of the central Crags. They enjoyed the trees while they could. Tomorrow would see them in the foothills of the Crags.

They ate a cold meal as Dernhelm always did in the woods and they set a watch, Davorin and Daelan patrolling camp as the others slept.

Dernhelm discarded his pack and went on a wide sweep around camp searching for orc-sign during the first watch. He found no traces of them and the air smelled clean; the forest seemed undisturbed in this part of the valley. As he was returning to camp, however, fortuitously a brown fox came across his path. Startled at the lack of advanced warning it usually received from bipeds in its domain, it moved to run away but he calmed it with a gesture. Producing a bit of dried beef to sweeten the deal, he soon had it nuzzling his hand.

What he sought was information, and a fox, with its wide range and ability to remain hidden, was the perfect spy. In the ranger way of talking with animals, he soon had extracted from it some good news: in its range in this part of the valley it had seen no orc-sign. The nature of the query alarmed it, however, as orcs were wanton destroyers of the forest, and it soon scampered off to the south in dismay, presumably to seek a safer haven in the southern woods. For a few moments Dernhelm watched it depart, saying a silent prayer for its protection, and taking a deep breath of the woody, northern air, he went back to camp to sleep.

Dernhelm shook them gently awake as the sun sank toward the horizon and they prepared another cold meal before setting off. The air was cool but tolerable and the forest was alive with the noises of wildlife. Dernhelm was sitting next to Tarlin as he finished some dried beef when he heard her quick intake of breath. Suddenly, the camp was moving. Arrows were knocked to bows, swords were drawn, and Nathyrra's hands began to glow with a wicked blue energy. Everyone looked about to identify the cause of her alarm, all except Dernhelm. Glancing up in the direction Tarlin was looking from his perch beside her, Dernhelm let out a low laugh. In the woods to his right about twenty paces distant was a huge, shaggy brown bear, standing on its hind legs stretching nearly eleven feet in height. Its head was about three feet across.

It was the largest bear he had ever seen and was one of his dearest friends.

"Be easy, Kern," Dernhelm said to the brown bear in a soft voice, his hands outstretched and palms-up in an irenic gesture. In response, the bear went back down on all fours. It had gone into defensive posture when Tarlin gasped and now settled with studying her intently.

Tarlin looked at Dernhelm with raised brows above eyes that were unreadable. When everyone else realized what had happened, they all laughed too and sheathed their weapons. The glow died on Nathyrra's hands as she shook her head in amusement. "He didn't mean to startle you," Dernhelm said, laughing.

"Kern, meet Tarlin."

"What is _that_?" Tarlin said. Tarlin's ears had turned red from the humorous looks directed at her by her companions, and above her surprise, Dernhelm could see anger building. Kern lumbered over to where Dernhelm now stood and received a heavy scratch behind the ears from the half-elf.

"This is Kern, my faithful companion for last twenty or so years. Isn't that right," he said grabbing the bear by the muzzle and shaking it with both hands while making a goo-goo face as one would to a baby. The bear stuck out its right front paw and pushed Dernhelm with such force that he staggered back, almost falling. Unconcerned, he laughed.

"There is nary an orc alive or anything for that matter that'd want to tangle with old Kern," he said and slugged the bear in the shoulder. Then he grinned devilishly.

"Of that I can attest," Daelan said. "I fought with Dernhelm and Kern during the Plague Wars…" he scratched his head as if in thought and then grinned. "As I recall, Kern _ate_ one of Morag's chief henchmen."

"Ah, that's right," Dernhelm said. "Wasn't that Morphin Xilo?"

"It was… for a short period of time." His companions all laughed at the familiar story, though only Daelan had witnessed it firsthand. Tarlin's face was an odd mix of incredulity, wonder, and her normal grimness.

As they were speaking, Kern, curious of the new companion, moved over to Tarlin and began to sniff her. At first she shrank back but, whether out of pride or because she realized there was nothing to be afraid of, she reached out and stroked his fur. He let out a low rumble. She nearly jerked her hand away in fear.

"Don't worry. Shows he likes you. Ain't that right, Kern?" The bear let out a low roar. The rumbling resumed once she continued to pet him.

"Tarlin, meet Kern."

The jagged peaks of the Crags surrounded them. High above the Neverwinter Wood, they had left the valley far behind. The remnant of a gigantic plateau, the Crags had been formed by some ancient collision event when the world was still in its infancy and the lands were vying for position. Though Mt. Hotenow was the only volcano in this area that had erupted in the history of the peoples of Faerûn, now dormant for ages uncounted, the Crags were home to numerous long-dead volcanoes, their ashes and lavas providing a testament to the colossal forces that once shaped the north.

In less than an hour they would be at the high pass that led over the mountains and would begin their descent back into the valley. The peaks around them rose much higher than the pass Dernhelm had chosen, but there the snow was very deep and the higher ways were impassable. Here the air was cold but manageable, their breath forming in gusts before their faces, and the snow was light along the narrow ridge trail that they walked. The trees were sparse, hardy pines that stood defiant against the elements; their branches and needles were scarce and some were wind burnt on one side, their remaining branches stretched out in supplication to the warmer climates far below. Three days had gone by and they had seen no sign of orcs.

The sun was sitting low in the horizon and their shadows were long on the rocks ahead of them when Dernhelm called a small halt. They took a long pull from their water skins and lay back against the rocks to rest their legs.

"The pass is just ahead," Dernhelm said pointing up the trail at two low peaks that were silhouetted against the sky. The trail wound out of sight shortly beyond where they rested but they could see far above the path as it passed between the two peaks. "It's an hour hike from this spot – somewhere over a thousand feet. I want to be about this elevation on the far side before we rest. That pass will be cold."

"As if it isn't already?" Nathyrra remarked from deep within her cowl, her breath misting out of the hole as if the steam from the snout of some foul beast.

"You're cold?" Dernhelm replied, as if shocked. His cape blew about his shoulders and though he had donned his gauntlets and a scarf around his face, his clothing provided only a moderate amount of warmth. He was used to being at such high elevations having camped many a night in the mountains of the north and he almost to the point of truly enjoying it. Nathyrra, born to the warm, subterranean Underdark was still adjusting to the extreme weather of the north, and though this was by no means the worst to which the mountains could provide them, he could understand how to her it could be biting. To emphasize his immunity however, he grabbed a handful of snow below a boulder where they sat and rubbed it vigorously on his face and neck. "Why this is great! Isn't it boys?" He gave a look of refreshment and stood to perform a little caper.

His scouts, although used to traveling with him and to dealing with his antics, had not spent nearly as much time as he had in the field and so sat wrapped in woolen cloaks. They gave a hearty chuckle but made no move to join him. They just shook their head and went back to eating some dried beef. Kern sat watching the commotion with his head resting on his paws. The cold certainly didn't bother him. He could hear Nathyrra cursing to herself.

Tarlin, however, did not laugh. The sight of her grim face made Dernhelm's dance falter a bit and he nearly stopped, but his need for a jocular respite coupled with a growing anger at her continually dour demeanor combined to make him dance all the harder. He didn't quite know why he cared so much about her countenance – maybe it was because she was a fellow Harper – but he found himself determined to make her smile no matter how short her tenure with them would be. He still knew little about this 'High Courier,' for they had no time to talk alone. The purpose of her 'chance' appearance in his city still nagged at him and at times he felt like she was studying him, almost scrutinizing him in-

A snowball pelted him in the rear, scattering his thoughts. When he turned – admittedly shocked – to identify the culprit, he found Daelan miserably attempting to look innocent.

"Daelan. _You_ threw that?" Dernhelm said incredulously. Daelan rarely made jokes, always appearing stoic and serious.

"If you were going to show how much you like the snow, I figured I'd help," said Daelan as he attempted to stifle a grin.

Dernhelm slapped his thigh and chuckled heartily, his previous mental meanderings forgotten. His companions, excepting Tarlin, laughed with him.

An owl hooted from the pine trees off to their left, severing their laughter like a knife. Everyone turned to look for the bird, but Dernhelm cocked his head as if to listen. From the trees came a message of short hoots followed by a long trill that echoed off the rocks and the thin woods. When the sound died away, Dernhelm hooted in response and held out his arm. After a few moments a snowy owl swooped down to land on Dernhelm's wrist. It was a male, pure white except for two black bands ringing its tail. Kern raised his head, curious.

The owl rotated its head to look at the gathered companions then turned to face Dernhelm. It let out a short trill. Dernhelm gave a similar sound in response. Then the owl emitted a longer song which Dernhelm took a moment to repeat, the bird facing him the entire time unblinking. For a short while Dernhelm and the owl conversed in this way, a series of hoots and warbles that made the otherwise empty mountainside fill with animal life. And then the owl's tone changed to a squawk. Dernhelm cocked his head and returned a low trill. The owl turned its head completely around to look up into the mountains. With a throaty warble Dernhelm raised his hand and the owl flew off into the thinning pine trees.

"Well?" Nathyrra asked nonchalantly.

"Orcs. About twenty of them less than a half-mile up. Arra says they appear to be guarding the pass. It seems our _friend_ is more organized than expected."

He looked after the owl as it winged its way far below. No one asked who Arra was or how he knew.

"Well," he said to the group. "Let's get this started. Like I said, I want to be on the other side before we rest." _His_ grim attitude, a lifetime away moments before, had returned.

Daelan grinned and then flexed his muscles. "Finally," he said eagerly. The rest of them could not help feeling eager too. They knew what they were about and though they never could like it – Daelan _did_ love to kill orcs – they had a job to do. Best to get it done. Kern merely licked his chops.

Turning, Dernhelm shouldered his pack and drew out his short bow. His scouts did the same. Tarlin drew her longsword and Kern merely stood, stamping in place impatiently. Nathyrra made no move. Seeing her expression he fixed her with a stare. "Bows and swords only. No magic. We don't know what warning systems may be in place." He didn't see Nathyrra stick out her tongue. She grinned and drew her crossbow. She knew better than to use magic when they were still being stealthy, but she always loved to test him. She loved to "get his goat" as the humans liked to say. With a flick of her fingers, her staff disappeared.

Completely silent, they advanced up the hill. As they got close to the pass, the trail bent to the left around a giant shoulder of stone and they could not see beyond it. Dernhelm signaled them to stop as he went forward for a look; they dropped their packs and Kern hunkered down to guard them. Creeping forward, Dernhelm peered around the edge of the rock.

The orcs were encamped in a ring of stones on a promontory that stuck out near the base of the left peak, connected to it by a small saddle. It allowed them to observe the trail that Dernhelm's party had been using while remaining well-protected from below. Five orcs patrolled the high ground protected by a waist-high wall. A small gong-like device was set in their midst, likely a device announcing intruders. The promontory was accessible from a heavy steel door built into the side which faced the pass. On the saddle Dernhelm could make out the outline of a small-trap door and a short trail led from it to the promontory outpost. The terrain from the front of the outcrop to the saddle on the side away from the pass was steep and too narrow for a human to scale.

In the pass itself were sixteen large orcs, half of them patrolling with wicked looking axes and sickles or dug in behind a low, earthen breastwork wielding crossbows. The others appeared to be resting but weapons were close at hand. Dernhelm frowned at the uncharacteristic behavior of the orcs. Orcs were never very bright, relying on muscle and numbers. These acted like a trained army rather than the rag-tag assortment of brain-dead jabbernowls he'd grown accustomed to fighting. He couldn't bet on surprise to rout them or the superior swordsmanship to stop them before they signaled the alarm; they would need stealth. He began to chew his lip.

This must truly be a mage of no small power to cause such a change in these orcs, he said to himself as he surveyed the defenses. An image of Aribeth and their unborn baby flashed into his mind; he was not afraid of these orcs, or of the potential power of the enemy mage, but the thoughts of his responsibilities made him even more cautious and circumspect. It tempered his enthusiasm for running headlong into battle which he would have enjoyed in the days of his youth.

He sat for a long moment studying their position. Although he imagined they would be specifically watching this bend in the trail, he was confident that they could not see him if he remained motionless. He blended in almost perfectly with the rocks and trees; with the cloaks he had provided, they all did.

Moving silently down the slope he rejoined his companions and described to them the enemy fortifications. None of them liked the news. Tarlin frowned as much as he had; though she had told them practically none of her history, her expression clearly bespoke how she knew this was out of the ordinary. She was not deterred in the slightest however; she gripped her hilt until her knuckles turned white at the thought of the orcs just ahead. High Couriers were necessarily well-trained fighters so as to protect their precious communiqués, and this 'Courier' was undoubtedly better trained than many of the message-bearers.

With soft words they discussed tactics. How could they get to the orcs on the promontory without them sounding the alarm? The door could not be broken down without magic and they couldn't scale the side facing the pass in time. Suddenly a plan came to Dernhelm. He related it to his companions. Frowns filled every face. It was too dangerous, they said, even if these are orcs; he'd be alone to face them for too long. In the end, however, no new plan could be invented. His plan seemed very logical. At last, they all nodded.

Inside Dernhelm knew that had Aribeth been here she would not approve. It was just the daring sort of 'stunt' he swore he would stop doing now that he was married. As he thought about her, he unconsciously rubbed his hand along the broach that held his cloak, feeling the subtle warmth infuse him. Aribeth had given him this magical trinket before he went to hunt down Desther so long ago, and he kept it as sort of a good luck charm, though did nothing useful except foster his memories. And then he bit off some more lip-skin.

Finally, with a reassuring look – as much for himself as for them – he stood. Gathering his ragged fur cloak about him so that it covered him from head to toe enclosing even his greatsword, he brought the cloak up to hide his face deeply within the cowl. Walking up the hill, slowly he began to change.

Captain Gerthog scratched his butt. He hated waiting. He was an orc of action, a killing machine of teeth, muscle, and bone. He wished there was some cute furry woodland creature to butcher. The air was cold as he patrolled the small outpost, the wind whipping his dwarf-beard mantle about his shoulders. Absently his hand moved to the front as he looked down at his men, twenty of the finest grunts to ever be born to the Clenched Fists. They were huge, mean, and all horribly scarred, a testament to the glorious battles of carnage and destruction they had engaged in over the last twenty years. And his mother said he'd never amount to anything. Grignosh rest her bones.

He hated guarding this pass when the action was taking place to the west. Nothing ever happened here and it was cold! He had to shake the ice from his furs when he woke in the morning! He hated cold weather, especially when he knew the others were down by the warm river, likely engaging in some spoil. It made his blood boil. An orc of his greatness should be in charge, raping and pillaging, not shoveling dung in an outpost at the army's butt. He gripped his battleaxe until his knuckles were white.

When he looked up, a wolf was walking below him on the trail. He blinked in surprise. They hadn't seen any animals this high for weeks. Well, not since they had eaten all of the ones that lived here, he grinned to himself. The wolf had obviously not sensed them yet. The wind was blowing out of south through the pass so it hid their smell.

Licking his chops, he could almost taste the wolf's steaming entrails. All anger at this wretched assignment vanished at thought of violence and fresh blood. He itched to kill something; he had been sedentary for too long. He reached for his crossbow. Knocking a bolt, he winched it into place and took careful aim. Glorious! Maybe this assignment wasn't _that_ bad, Gerthog thought. The wolf's head came up. It must have heard something. With a lurch, it bolted off to Gerthog's right in front of the outpost and disappeared over the steep side.

Cursing loudly, the sound echoed off the pass walls. He didn't care. _No one_ was going to come through here. Now he was cold, angry, and hungry, his salivary glands activated and then taunted mercilessly. Slamming the crossbow down, he resumed his rounds, kicking the wall with his steel shod boots.

"Can't even get fresh meat," he grumbled. His sentries nodded but said nothing. None of them liked being here.

He walked to the steep western side to look out over the Crags, their jagged peaks outlined against a darkening sky. A storm was moving in, a mass of black clouds laced with distant lightning. For this high elevation, that meant that they would have snow by morning and this pass would grow ridiculously cold. He growled again to himself. He hated this.

As he watched the progress of the storm, he couldn't help but continue to think of his clan gearing up to attack the humans while he was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. They were going to attack Neverwinter. _Neverwinter_ of all places! He wanted to see that place sacked and burning. He wanted to revel in its destruction. He had dreamed about it ever since the last time he had seen those hated shining walls, dreamed for almost twenty years!

He remembered the glory of conquest as they had gone through the countryside laying waste to villages and small towns, raping the women and eating the children. He could still see the faces of the people screaming in agony. Glorious! And most of all he remembered that elf witch. He had never met a more vicious person alive and the memory of the horrors he witnessed her visit on the people aroused him. He had never seen one like her, not among his own people and never among the non-orcs; he remembered when she had promoted him to captain. It had been the greatest moment of his life. They were invincible. With a stroke of the axe, they had raised Port Llast and Fort Ilkard!

But Neverwinter, how he hated it! He remembered when the army had marshaled outside, their black armor nearly stealing the light. They had come like a tide! He remembered Neverwinter, so small and waiting to be broken. He couldn't believe that the attack was not successful. He couldn't believe the people of Neverwinter had defeated him, defeated _her_. And by some foul magic that sent him running like a wounded dog. He wanted to make them pay for that. He wanted to eat the flesh from their bones and grind their skulls into powder. He knew Ugluk had his own reasons, but Gerthog had _his_. Grignosh's toes! He wished he was in the battle instead of being out here! His fist crashed down on the stone wall with a painful thud.

Yet he could see the reason for it. His anger began to diffuse. This pass provided an entrance into the Neverwinter Valley close to Mt. Hotenow. No orcs lived in this part of the Crags, only a few rock trolls and ogres, and so it was essentially unguarded. Ugluk had called it an important assignment, one that required the attention of someone dependable, and that is why he had selected Captain Gerthog. The pass needed to be protected at all costs. Somehow Ugluk's commands always seemed reasonable no matter how slyly they were worded or contrary to Gerthog's own desires they might seem at first and Gerthog found that he always obeyed them. He wondered why that was so. Who knows? Thinking made his brain hurt. It was easier to just do what he was told… for now. That didn't mean he liked being here.

He had been up in this empty, god-forsaken pass for too long.

As he walked by one of his sentries, a huge orc with little tufts of hair above his ears and a spiked collar around his neck, Gerthog punched him. Not for any reason except to get rid of frustration. The orc shrugged it off and looked at him with a dumbly curious expression.

"Wud I do?" the big orc asked.

"Back to work!"

"Dat's what I'm doing," the big orc said as he rolled his eyes. He turned to look out over the pass.

Gerthog stared at the big orc's back for a moment before continuing on.

Angrily, he kicked the wall again.

A noise behind him caused him to turn toward the mountain. The wolf he had seen before was looking at him. It was about twenty feet away sitting just outside the ring of stones near the trapdoor entrance. The wolf was motionless. Gerthog grabbed a crossbow from one of his sentries. It would be easy to hit this stationary target. Dumb wolf, fortune had smiled on them. It was sitting their asking to be tonight's entree. Saliva ran from his mouth at the thought of those entrails!

"Good, da wolf come back. Now we get some good eating," he said. His sentries turned, licking their chops; they all were ravenous for raw animal flesh. Raising his crossbow, he sighted in along the bolt. As he did so, a thought tickled the back side of his brain. Something didn't feel right here. He could feel the wind on his back blowing toward the pass. He knew the wolf could smell him. And he _knew_ it could _see_ him. That wasn't normal behavior for a wolf. Why was it just sitting there? Thinking made his brain hurt.

The wolf snarled and dug in its hind legs. He blinked in surprise. If he didn't know better he would think it was preparing to _attack_ him. His sentries must have also thought something odd because they all raised eyebrows at the wolf's behavior. Then they smiled; fighting for their meat was even better than ripping it off dead bones. They'd tear it apart. Gerthog couldn't help but smile too.

Not wanting the meat to have a chance at getting away again, Gerthog raised the crossbow to his cheek. And then his eyes locked with the wolf. The crossbow clattered to the stones from his suddenly nerveless fingers; Gerthog's mouth open in a look of shock.

With that, the wolf was moving. It raced toward the wall in large bounds, its paws barely touching the ground. As it ran it began to grow in size. In the seconds it took to reach the wall it was the size of a large orc. Captain Gerthog had barely enough time to shake his mind clear and grab his axe. As the wolf jumped over the wall, Gerthog slid to the right and swung at the wolf's side, a blow that would sever the wolf in two.

Instead of a yelp of pain, to his surprise the wolf shouted "Ha-ha!" in a nasally human voice and his axe clanged against steel. For one brief moment he caught a second glimpse of the wolf's terrible eyes and then all hell broke loose.

The crossbow rose. The rest of the orcs turned his way. He could see the orc with the crossbow look at him hungrily. He snarled and the orc sneered. And then their eyes met; the orc dropped his crossbow. He took off at a run. His legs pounded with incredible energy. Baring his fangs, he leapt over the wall and in the same motion took off his cloak.

He saw the orc swing his axe. With a clean motion in mid-lunge, he grabbed his greatsword and caught the axe on the flat of his blade. The next moment he crashed into two of the orc sentries knocking them all sprawling. He was on his feet in an instant. With a quick swing, he slit the throat of the orc to his right, and jabbed his sword into the chest of the other orc as it attempted to rise.

"Watch the face. _Not_ in the face," a voice shouted. Dernhelm ignored it, pushing on the orc's chest and pulling his sword free.

The remaining three orcs had regained their composure and were advancing on him, the two sentries in front of him and the one which appeared to be the leader behind. The pass erupted in pandemonium.

"Idiots," Gerthog shouted. "Sound the alarm!"

Dernhelm could feel the axe descend behind him and he spun around to catch it on his blade. The axe shattered in a shower of metal shards. With a sudden jerk, he slammed the hilt right into the startled captain's face staggering him into the wall. The axe handle fell from numb fingers. He turned to face the sentries.

One of them had reached the gong, a large mallet in hand. The other bore down on him with a huge axe. The mallet began to descend. Dernhelm tossed his greatsword in an overhand strike, the blade tumbling madly as he rolled to avoid the coming blow. The axe descended and bit deep into the rock where he had been standing.

The mallet-bearer looked down in shock as a huge length of steel erupted from his chest. With a roar, the sword began to glow with a wicked red light. The orc's back wrenched itself perfectly straight, his arms spread wide, and his hands opened as far as they could go. The orc's face contorted with a horrible rictus of pain. With a moan, the mallet fell from his outstretched arms and he fell over in a heap.

"Orcs! Why are there _always_ orcs!?" the voice continued.

The other orc stopped in confusion, the tufts of hair above its ears blowing in the wind. Dernhelm used the opportunity and kicked him hard between the legs with a pointed boot. Its eyes rolled up into its head and it collapsed. Regaining his feet, Dernhelm walked to the mallet-bearer and withdrew his sword. The orc captain was leaning against the wall and holding his nose, a gush of blood covering the front of his armor. He looked up as Dernhelm moved toward him and grabbed a jagged dagger from his belt.

Spitting out a broken tooth, he growled.

"Who be you?" the orc asked, his already muddled speech further hampered by the mouth full of blood and loose teeth.

"Come, come," a voice asked. "Does it _really_ matter now?" Dernhelm grinned viciously.

The orc's eyes opened wide. He lunged at Dernhelm. Dernhelm casually stepped aside and ran the orc through.

When the axe met Dernhelm's sword they broke from cover behind the boulder and charged into the pass. Most of the orcs were looking up in confusion at the noises from the top of the outpost. The orcs were not caught completely off guard however and as the companions entered the pass, two of the orcs managed to loose crossbows. One bolt passed harmlessly by, but the other caught Davorin in the left shoulder, spinning him around. He fell soundlessly but the expression on his face described his pain clearly. Aniril and Thurgan both found marks amongst the orcs and two of the orcs fell before they were even within fifty feet, shafts protruding from faces and chests. Aniril knelt beside his brother to help him. Thurgan fired off another arrow, taking a startled orc in the neck, and then threw down his bow as he drew his axe.

The remaining orcs moved into a defensive formation, one giant orc shouting orders as the reserves scrambled to gather weapons. Twelve orcs formed into a double line. The companions closed upon them. Then Nathyrra unleashed a crossbow bolt that caught the lead orc dead in the groin. The orc screamed in pain. Then the scream became a terrified wail as the bolt ignited with a whoosh of fire. In seconds he was completely engulfed, the flames blossoming high into the sky. The other orcs fell away. With a deafening boom, the orc literally disintegrated into a multitude of burning embers which fell amongst the ranks of orcs burning hair and skin. The line began to waver, the orcs all wearing shocked expressions. In the confusion, Aniril dropped another orc, firing from a kneeling position beside his brother. Then the companions reached the line and the battle began in earnest. The sound of Nathyrra's vicious laugh echoed above the clash of swords.

Some of the orcs were stamping and patting out the flames and they fell beneath Daelan's madly spinning axe, caught off guard in confusion. Daelan was an avalanche. Aniril caught another orc by surprise, an arrow shaft protruding from under its right arm as the orc swung to strike Thurgan. Thurgan repaid the off-balance orc by sinking his axe into the orc's neck.

Four orcs closed in around Daelan. Daelan laid about him with abandon, having given himself over to his barbarian rage. An orc caught Daelan a slashing blow to the left shoulder with a sickle but he didn't even slow. Then Thurgan went down under a blow from a hammer he failed to see, breaking his right arm and causing him to drop his axe. Tarlin was instantly at his side, her sword cutting down the assailant. Aniril dropped his bow and drew his longsword, moving to guard Nathyrra's back as several of the orcs closed in.

Then the orcs began to press Daelan back, their sheer weight in numbers seemingly too much even for his fury. Tarlin moved in to help him, but an orc caught her in the side with a spear. Luckily, the spear only glanced across her armor, and she severed the spear mid-haft and then took the orc dead in the face. Spitting on his corpse with disgust, she turned to her companions.

Four bodies lay in a circle about Daelan missing arms, legs, and heads. Daelan's chest heaved with the effort, his axe dripping with gore, blood sticking his cloak to his left arm. Aniril and Nathyrra had managed to kill two orcs, one pinioned with a half-dozen dagger wounds from her rapidly twirling fingers and another open from neck to groin. Tarlin quickly disemboweled another orc that attempted to strike Daelan from behind.

Skirting the melee, the last orc attempted to run from the pass. It darted around Daelan and started racing at breakneck speed toward the north end. None of them were near enough to catch it or to grab their bows in time.

Almost in front of it, the door to the outpost opened and Dernhelm emerged. The orc nearly ran headlong into him. Both seemed startled at each other's appearance and the orc screamed. It swung its axe at Dernhelm's head, trying to knock him off balance as it sought to get around him, but Dernhelm was faster. He caught the axe on his greatsword one-handed and with his left hand, produced a dagger which he sank into the orc's neck. A fountain of blood erupted, coating Dernhelm's chest and hands. In a moment, it was over. Silence descended.

All of the orc's in the pass were dead. The companions looked at each other across the battlefield with grim faces. Aniril ran to comfort his brother and Tarlin helped Thurgan to his feet. Their groans of pain were the only sounds to break the silence. From the recent pandemonium, this stillness made the pass feel like a grave. Dernhelm bent and wiped his hand on the orc's tunic.

"Well, _this_ is a cheery place," a voice spoke.

"How many orcs does it take to take to storm a castle?" the sword said in a nasally voice that echoed off the walls of the cave. Following the battle they had descended rapidly from the mountain pass, seeking a haven at lower elevation from the coming storm. They had stumbled upon the cave only because of Dernhelm's superior senses and a better refuge they could not find. Clearly fashioned by the dwarves in some bygone era – no other people possessed such skill with stone – the opening was cunningly hidden and the cave rose from the entrance so the light from any fires couldn't be seen from outside. The smoke could escape from numerous cracks in the cave roof, created to appear natural, and they suspected the external chimneys were similar concealed. It could fit eight people comfortably. Kern had disappeared shortly after they had bunked down, off to hunt the highland animals, and with Nathyrra and Aniril standing guard in the crevices outside, it was positively roomy.

"I don't know, Enserric" Dernhelm asked incredulously, familiar with the sword's idea of humor. "How many orcs does it take?"

"As many as you've got!" the sword replied with a snort. "If they die, you can _always _just breed more." Had he been a person, they all had the impression he would've been holding his sides as he laughed at his own joke. Peals of laughter seemed to emerge from nowhere.

Sometimes it was _creepy_ being around a talking sword.

Dernhelm responded with an exaggerated roll of his eyes even as Daelan grinned viciously; being born to a mother who had been raped by orcs tended to warp his sense of humor. His arm was bandaged but his eyes said he was unaffected. Very little short of death could slow him when he was on a mission.

Thurgan merely smiled. Sitting upright, his arm was hanging in a sling; he absently flipped a dagger in his good hand. Davorin lay next to him under a blanket. The crossbow bolt had been effectively removed but it had been coated with a crude poison. Dernhelm had administered him a curative mixture of crushed wormwood and fig leaves and a potion to help him sleep as it took effect.

Tarlin, sitting across the small cave from Dernhelm, beheld Enserric with rapt attention, enthralled by even the most asinine and boorish attempts at humor.

"How is it that we can sit here holding an intelligent conversation with a sword that talks?" Tarlin replied.

"_Don't_ think so highly of yourself," the sword responded acerbically. Surprised, Tarlin's eyebrows drew down in anger. Dernhelm couldn't help but laugh aloud, even harder when he saw her anger deepen. He had gotten used to the jibes over the years but he knew how infuriating and humiliating it could be for someone not used to dealing with it. I mean really, being shamed by a sword, he thought. It was fun to watch her reaction. And in his self-appointed cause to change her attitude, any way he could get under her skin was worth celebration. Even Daelan snorted.

"Sorry," the sword apologized. "You can imagine how being confined to a sword for sixty-seven years tends to make one a little bitter and crabby," he paused and then sighed. "Ok, maybe you can't. _I_ still haven't gotten used to it." The sword laughed.

"Confined for sixty-seven years? You mean at one time you were a person?" Tarlin looked around confused. She could see from the expressions on the faces of her companions that they all knew the story, having heard it a plethora of times.

"Of course I was a person. You don't think someone would have willingly _created_ someone with my wonderful personality, do you? It wouldn't do for parties." He laughed mirthlessly when his attempt at humor failed to yield any response from Tarlin. "Enserric the Grey at your service," the sword continued. "I would bow, but my back has been quite stiff for a while you see." At this he broke into another fit of laughter at his own wit.

"How did-"

"How did I get trapped? Simple. Greed." He stated it so nonchalantly without any humor that for a moment she sat blinking. But in a moment, he tittered, ruining the dramatic effect.

"That's the way it goes in adventuring. One score too much and it bites you in the… well, you get my… heh, heh…. point."

They all groaned. Dernhelm buried his head in his hands.

"Oh come on, it was a good joke."

"For you, maybe…" Thurgan replied. "Then again, since your comedic better is a goblin complaining of crotch itch…"

"You guys don't know good taste… come to think of it… I haven't known _any_ taste for sixty-seven years!" He began to laugh again.

Cutting Enserric off with a grimace as if he had just eaten sour grapes, Dernhelm said forcefully, "Just stick to the subject." Everyone frowned at the unintended witticism.

"Ok, ok… where was I? Oh, yes."

And then Dernhelm realized his mistake. So caught up was he in trying to stop Enserric from making bad jokes that he failed to realize where the conversation was headed. They had heard this story more times than they could count and it always ended up a killer for morale. As Enserric began, everyone but Tarlin found something else to occupy their attention. Dernhelm wished he had a way to shut him up.

"I was a wizard, part of an adventuring party long ago. We traveled the world looking for riches and fame. Riches to keep our bellies full and fame to keep the wenches coming. Foolish. One day we figured we would try and hit the big score: Undermountain. We figured if the stories about that place were true, we could maybe even retire from the business." His voice was filled with incredible disdain. "One of my companions became captivated by a sword of surpassing beauty held in a tomb of ancient kings long decayed to bones. That of course is the beautiful sword which is before you now," He chuckled. "It was so well-made we believed that with it we could ransom a small kingdom. I was too confident of my own abilities in the arcane arts. My ego was enough I figured I could even challenge Halaster in his own home." He paused as if reflecting. "When my I tried to detect any detrimental enchantments on the sword I accidentally activated a powerful counterspell which grabbed hold of my essence binding it to the blade. My body disintegrated into ashes. My companions turned to run, but the counterspell also brought the skeletons to life. My companions didn't have a chance. They fell to the very blade we had sought to steal." No sound could be heard except for the snapping of the small fire.

"Wait a minute," Tarlin asked, her brow furrowed quizzically. "How did you know what happened to your companions? I mean, you acted as if you could still see them. You can see?"

"Oh, I _can_ see. That was an added bonus of the spell," Enserric replied in a voice thick with irony and sarcasm. "I can't see like you can, all colors, hues, and life. No. I see just outlines of tangible objects, nothing solid. But I see more, much more. The punishment for a misdeed paid a million times over." Dernhelm looked her direction with a face that had lost the mirth it once held at Enserric's insults and bad jokes. He looked sad.

"I see the darkness present in all living things. The hidden pains and wounds, the sins that stain the soul black. The violence and anger. That is what fills the outlines in my 'eyes.' That is how I could see my friends, how I knew it was them. That is how I tell someone apart from someone else. Everyone has their own unique sins." He paused and the world seemed to pause with him. "That is how I can see you," he said in a flat voice.

Tarlin swallowed. Her face became pensive as she looked inward at the memories only she knew in the entire world. That is, only she and Enserric. Dernhelm's eyes were downcast and he had paused in his duties, one hand resting on Davorin's shoulder.

Enserric's voice broke the silence. It was filled with mirth as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary. "Well, I didn't mean to be such a downer. The past is behind me. Now I am a simple sword used by Dernhelm to stamp out the wickedness of the world," he said in voice that rang with false braggadocio. "It is almost fun! That is, if Dernhelm would clean out that scabbard of his from time to time. Phew! Stanky!" He was laughing! Having transitioned so suddenly from morbid conversation to flippant jocularity, it wasn't hard for Tarlin to tell that Enserric was truly insane.

Looking as if she was about to make some comment, Tarlin opened her mouth but was cut off by Dernhelm.

"Shhh." Dernhelm said suddenly, his finger held to his lips.

Never cutting off conversation lightly, his comrades were quick to respond. Thurgan quietly rose to a crouched position, his dagger held tightly in preparation for a fight despite his injured arm, and Daelan grabbed his axe. From the entrance tunnel, the faint sound of scraping came toward them, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

And then to Tarlin's left, something flashed in her vision. It looked black but it was surrounded by a nimbus of intense white light. Dernhelm's eyes widened in complete alarm. Leaping at an angle across the fire, Dernhelm tackled Tarlin as lightning struck the wall where she had been sitting. The resulting concussion knocked Daelan sprawling next to the fire. Instantly, the shaggy hair on his arm ignited and he rolled around to put it out.

Tarlin provided a tangle of arms and legs for a moment hampering Dernhelm as he tried to rise. Brimstone and smoke filled the small chamber, making it difficult to breathe. With a heave, Dernhelm extricated himself, flipped onto his feet and grabbed Enserric in one smooth motion, and then hurriedly leapt to one side. A bolt of lightning struck again just to the left of his mid-section, showering him with rock fragments and opening numerous small cuts. Had he not moved, it would have hit him square in the chest. The blast did catch Tarlin on her right pauldron, driving her hard against the ground, taking away her breath.

In front of them stood a man-shaped creature covered head-to-toe by a black cloak with a large hood, two large bat-like wings projecting from slits in the cloak back, partially folded by its sides, incredibly long talons at the end of the wings held out like giant knives. Few living people had ever seen its like, and though it probably would have tickled memories of horrid, childhood stories, its sheer presence scattered all thoughts.

A brilliant glow growing rapidly in intensity stemmed from the recesses of the cowl, casting eerie shadows as Dernhelm stood before it. And then it manipulated its talons so that they pointed directly at his chest, razor-spears meant solely to skewer and kill. With a shriek, it lunged at the half-elf, the noise echoing so loudly off the walls that Tarlin clasped her hands to her ears. The cave was no longer so roomy.

At the last moment, Dernhelm sidestepped and lashed out with Enserric, catching the enemy directly in the chest, burying the sword to the hilt because of the creature's forward momentum. Its claws dragged two giant scratches along Dernhelm's oak-colored armor. The force of the blow spun it to the side, and the creature unleashed another blast of lightning, narrowly missing Thurgan as he jumped out of the way.

Screams of pain erupted from the creature, louder than its shrieks of previous aggression, its arms flying outward as Enserric glowed eerily red.

"Get down!" Dernhelm shouted and with a heave, he picked up the pinioned creature and ran down the entrance tunnel. The creature twitched and scrabbled futilely for purchase, its claws dragging along the walls as it attempted to arrest its motion. They quickly disappeared from view.

For an instant, a hush fell over the hidden cave at the sudden departure of the noise and violence of moments ago… and then a resounding boom echoed from beyond the cavern entranceway. Less than a second later, an energy wave rolled up the tunnel and knocked them all breathless against the walls. Tarlin, who had just risen was almost knocked sprawling a second time, stumbling backward to slap painfully into the stone. Her right shoulder smoked from the energy of the creature's attack but surprisingly the armor had protected her. Moving it cautiously, as much from the pain as anything, she confirmed that nothing was cracked or broken; she knew however that her shoulder would bear an immense bruise from the impact.

Looking around the cave, Tarlin saw two jagged gouges smoking in the walls of bare stone, depressions over three feet deep. The rock had been essentially vaporized. Thurgan Marst was brushing off bits of stone, tiny cuts oozing blood that showed stark red against the white bandage on his arm. He looked pained but he could shakily stand; a cut ran down his scalp where he had hit the wall in his effort to escape the blast. Daelan had a burn on his shoulder, a section of arm three inches long completely devoid of shaggy hair. With a growl he hefted his axe like a spear and charged from the cavern.

At his feet lay Davorin…or what was left of him. His eyes were open and staring as if the force had jarred him from his drug-induced slumber the instant before death or maybe the sheer amount of energy had caused even his eye muscles to spasm. Halfway down his ribcage his body simply ended in a jagged line. Surprisingly, the stump was not bleeding; it had been perfectly cauterized. His legs from knees to his feet lay smoking about a torso's length away still in their leather armor. It was like a section of his body had simply disappeared.

At the sight, Thurgan looked like he was ready to vomit, and she could feel her own gorge rising. With a shake he wiped his mouth with his hand and rubbed it on his trousers. Grabbing his axe he turned and ran from the cave. Horrified, Tarlin could do little else but draw her sword and follow him.

Outside, the scene was little better. Bits of smoking minotaur were strewn all about the cliff ledge and if not for the stiff mountain wind, she knew the smell would have been overpowering. Nathyrra stood to one side with Aniril, her hands glowing with a blue fire, matched only in intensity by the lavender gleam of her eyes. Aniril had an arrow nocked to his bow. What shocked her most however, was Dernhelm. To her left, he crouched as if he couldn't stand, surrounded by Daelan and Thurgan, their hands holding him steady. His face was covered with ragged gashes and he wavered as if he would fall.

Gasping, she ran over to him, reaching out her hand to touch his lacerated face. It was one of the first signs of emotion that she had yet evinced other than anger. As she approached, however, he pulled his face away. With a grunt, he stood erect and would have toppled if not for the support.

"Don't touch my wounds," he said in a pain-filled voice. "I'm fine. My armor took the brunt of the explosion – and that even after I had thrown it over the cliff. Nasty creatures those, exploding when dead."

"You look like death," she said shocked at his reply. "How can you say you are fine?"

"Look at my face," he replied. Before her eyes, the flesh on his face began to slowly knit itself back together. Her mouth opened it utter shock.

"A ring enchanted with regenerative properties," Dernhelm said more to get his mind off the pain than to educate Tarlin. He held out his right hand; a small ring with a raised circle of jade graced his ring finger.

"I have heard of rings with such powerful enchantments, but I have never seen one." Tarlin replied, her voice approaching awestruck.

"I took this from a wizard named Valeron, deep beneath Luskan. Rings such as this were made by the Netherese wizards long ago." He coughed heartily and again Tarlin reached toward him but stopped when he continued. "They bond to the user and will only work for them so long as they are alive. I know of only one other that has ever been found. It does not prevent death but allows the body to suffer many times what would kill a man. It has saved my life many times. Unfortunately," he spat out blood that had gotten into his mouth from his damaged lips, "It doesn't get rid of pain."

In about a minute, the skin on Dernhelm's face began to regain its normal color and the gashes were almost completed sealed. He let out a pain filled sigh. "I could use a stiff drink." He said dryly.

Thanking his friends, he stood upright on his own and surveyed the group's injuries. Dernhelm saw that his friends numbered only five. "Where did Aniril go?" he asked in a still weak voice.

A raw-throated scream echoed out of the tunnel. Dernhelm whipped toward the noise and drew Enserric, albeit shakily, but Tarlin placed a hand on his chest. Looking at her quizzically, he saw tears brimming around her eyes. This time he made no move to stop her. Her eyes held true concern. He lowered Enserric, his heart catching in his throat at what he saw in her face.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Tarlin hung her head. "He probably just found his brother," she said in a voice of sadness and frustration. "Davorin is dead. That blast…" she stopped and took a deep breath. "It severed him in two while he slept. He never woke. It…" She paused as if she might cry but then pulled herself together. She used anger to quash her sadness. "It is horrible." In a low voice she added with bitterness, "He had no such ring."

Realizing what she had just said, she looked up with a truly wounded expression. "Dernhelm, I'm sorry I didn't mean for that to sound that way."

"I know," he replied. With his newly healed hand, he reached out as if to hug her, but when she tensed and her countenance changed again to stern, he let the hand fall.

In the aftermath of the battle, Dernhelm learned that not just one but two of the bat-like Varax had attacked them, the first having been destroyed by Nathyrra's magic. Their presence sent the first twinge of actual fear settling in his heart. Formed of pure magic, they had been summoned to Faerûn by the Valsharess during her war against Waterdeep, but unlike her other minions they did not return to the void when her power was broken. Eleven in total, six had survived the war and had fled across Faerûn. The fact that two of the remaining six were here and were obviously controlled by this ogre mage, made Dernhelm's hackles rise. The ogre-mage was _much_ stronger than Dernhelm had believed; he had sorely underestimated him. Neverwinter was in greater trouble than he had anticipated.

Dernhelm had faced powerful enemies before – the Valsharess, Mephistopheles, Valeron – and was not afraid for himself. He was saddened however, because his enemies always managed to cause death before they were destroyed. Each time, cities had been burnt and hundreds to thousands had died. Davorin was a prime example of this. Dernhelm's blood started to boil even hotter. And he knew there was always a chance that an errant arrow from an orc could fell even the most protected or heavily enchanted person.

He feared for the people of Neverwinter, Aribeth, and their unborn child.

He led his companions back to their mountain hold; they needed to evacuate as soon as possible. If the ogre-mage found them once, he would undoubtedly send another, larger force. And Dernhelm was determined not to let Ugluk catch them unaware again. He spat out a small amount of blood; the last vestige of his injuries. He was determined, at all possible, to end this soon.

Aside from Davorin, his companions had fared surprisingly well. Daelan's burn was minor, and Thurgan had only superficial cuts coupled with his pre-existing broken arm. Tarlin had a severely bruised, though unbroken shoulder, and Aniril and Nathyrra had escaped unscathed.

They did however, all bear grim expressions, hiding their sadness. Even Aniril, who sat bleary-eyed in one corner, having cried until he was tearless, looked ready for a fight. He sat gripping his sword until the fair skin of his hand was taut and pale. In this job, allowing emotion to take control led quickly to death and necessitated suppression. It was a sad truth, one they had all been taught intimately over the years. Dernhelm sighed.

They had buried Davorin's remains beneath a hasty cairn of rocks within their cave in the mountain wall. It was hidden enough to see his brother's body protected and unmolested. When it was completed and in spite of their need for haste, Dernhelm spent the better part of an hour removing the pieces of their enemies from outside their hold and tossing them over the cliff. It was intended as an act of catharsis for Aniril, but Dernhelm took disturbing pleasure in watching them beat against the rocks as they made their descent.

Kern sat by and studied him curiously as he worked. Returning from his hunt shortly after the battle, his fur was matted in several places with a sticky, black blood. He had met the minotaur near the pass before they had reached Dernhelm and the others, but had been prevented from providing any warning. He had managed to kill two before the Varax had driven him off, a significant feat even for a bear of his size. From time to time, Dernhelm would scratch him appreciatively behind an ear.

"I want you to go back to Neverwinter," Dernhelm said suddenly, looking at Thurgan. The flipping knife stopped in Thurgan's good hand, and he reached up to scratch his beard lightly with the point.

"You are too injured to be of help to us and I need you to go tell Lord Nasher and the Nine that it is worse than we feared. You are to tell them what you saw and though we do not yet know what they are planning we know that it will be bad.

"Tell them to send out envoys to Waterdeep with this news, as well as to the Uthgardt and have my wife send Deekin to the kobolds. Have them say that Neverwinter formally asks for aid."

Everyone's eyebrows shot up. "Do you think it is going to be _that_ bad," Thurgan asked incredulously. It would have to be pretty bad if they needed the kobolds. Dernhelm knew what they were thinking.

"Two _Varax_?" Dernhelm replied with equal parts disbelief and anger at the situation. "Don't you think that if our enemy can control them that portends much more than a simple army of orcs and, at worst, trolls? Something in my bones says this is going to get a lot worse. He may control the other four as well. And somehow, he detected us up here when Nathyrra used no magic!

"In fact, use the Stone of Recall. Don't worry," Dernhelm headed Thurgan off as he saw his rebuttal. He smiled devilishly. "I brought them both. I didn't think Eltoora would miss them."

"Then what are we going to do?" Tarlin asked.

"The same thing we were planning to do. Try and make an end to this menace _before_ the situation gets _any_ worse."

"Considering what we faced here, don't you think killing him will be even more difficult than before?"

"Of course, but this is still the best option. Since we are coming through from this side, he has one more thing to distract his attention from whatever he is planning. That gives them time in Neverwinter."

"I was just asking," Tarlin said defensively.

"I… am… going… to kill him," Aniril said under his breath.

"That's settled then," Dernhelm replied. "Let's go."

Thurgan disappeared in a flash.


	5. Chapter IV: Shadows of the Past

**Chapter IV: Shadows of the Past**

After leaving their campsite, they descended about a mile to a place where the cliff was lower and they rappelled via ropes to the rocky slopes beneath. Choosing an arduous and daring route that Dernhelm hoped would throw off their pursuers – or at least make them difficult to find – over three days they climbed down via narrow ravines into the lower reaches of the Crags just above the Neverwinter Valley. Dernhelm employed all his ranger skills at covering their trail and keeping them all undetected.

In the end, his insight paid off. They had not seen a single soul other than forest creatures; these Dernhelm used as his eyes and ears. The trip proved tiring to the group, and they were all worn out by the morning of the fourth day. They stopped in a steep defile.

In the distance, Mt. Hotenow stood like a huge boil on the surface of the earth, dark grey slashed with red, its ancient surface still holding on to the rock of its youth, fighting against the effects of time and weather. The summit rose one thousand meters above the plain, a small, lopsided cone sporting short, steep-sided lava flows. Smoke rose in small columns from hidden cracks on the sides of Mt. Hotenow, filling the air with the stench of sulfur.

The Neverwinter Valley had its headwaters at the foot of the volcano, formed by the water that drained the western summit. Here it was only a narrow draw that exposed thick sequences of ash, rock, and columns of black basalt as the water flowed far west to the sea. A small footpath ran along the valley edge.

The defile in which they sat was surrounded by sparse conifers extending in a patchwork of growth toward the volcano. However, not a thousand feet distant, the needled trees transitioned across a sharp line to become twisted, gnarled and lifeless. The dead zone was aptly named. In all, the volcanic landscape was depressing and ugly.

Two hundred feet up the southwest face of the volcano, the footpath ended at the Cave of Harnak, a dark hole bounded by jagged walls of lava. Where the volcano met the plain, a sprawling encampment of tents of all shapes and sizes guarded the path. The camp was filled with a motley assortment of trolls, ogres, orcs, and minotaur all scurrying about on some appointed task.

"Well, this is certainly bigger than the last time I was here," Aniril said with a scowl. Dernhelm took note of the fact that he used the singular pronoun. "I don't see how we can get in unnoticed." For a long moment, Dernhelm watched the enemy without saying a word. In the end, he started to think the same thing. With the enemy being able to detect them in some as yet unknown way, he had to accept the possibility that the increased manpower was a result of their approach.

"You leave that to me," Nathyrra said with a wicked, but sober, grin.

"Uh," Tarlin began, but Dernhelm cut her off. "Nathyrra, whatever you are planning will undoubtedly set off every alarm in the region, if I know you."

Rubbing her hands together viciously, she regarded them with an underhanded eye. "You leave that to me as well. I have been waiting a long time to try something out. Once you see it, you'll see why. They will be too busy than to argue about us paying Ugluk a visit."

Dernhelm knew better than to press her when she had a secret and he relied on her discretion. He let the matter drop.

"Then let's all get some sleep. Aniril and I will take the first watch." They all looked at him with shocked expressions.

"We are camping here? This close?" It was Daelan's turn to appear shocked.

"Sure. If he can detect us, we could already be screwed. Else, the last place you'd expect to look for an enemy would be right before your nose, yes?" It was Dernhelm's turn to grin, wickedly. Sometimes, you just couldn't argue with logic.

It was dawn. At noon they would make their move.

Hidden in the defile, they watched the enemy camp bustle with life; scouts moved in a constant stream up the trail to the Cave of Harnak or to disappear back into the Neverwinter Valley. In the shade of their encampment, Dernhelm watched as Tarlin slept, concern evident on his face. They had divided the watch into two two-man shifts; Dernhelm made sure that Tarlin received as much rest as possible. Confident in her abilities, he was nevertheless sure the arduous climb had taxed her bruised shoulder. In the coming hours, she would need all his strength.

Aniril sat brooding with his back against the rocky wall, constrained sorrow and anger eagerly awaiting needed release. His right hand held his sword in a death embrace and his left clenched spasmodically. Nathyrra on the other hand was the picture of calm, eyes closed and palms upward, her arms resting on her knees as she prepared her spells for the coming engagement. Dernhelm was curious to know what she was planning. He had known her for a long time and her "surprises" were the stuff of legend. He remembered the time in the battle for Lith My'athar when she had cast the spell of awakening on the illithids drones, skirting the spell shields of her enemies. A whole section of the enemy army had devolved into complete pandemonium until control could be regained. Untold numbers of masters and slaves had slaughtered each other in their desperate power struggle. At the memory, even given the heartache they had endured, or perhaps in spite of it, he found himself chuckling lightly.

Daelan looked over at Dernhelm with a raised eyebrow. "What's so funny?" he asked.

Dernhelm recoiled in shock and quickly guarded his features. He had had no intention of letting his expression show, given Aniril's obvious pain, nor letting himself be so distracted. Trying to cover his mistake, he figured honesty was the best. "Nothing, I was just remembering the last time Nathyrra gave one of her surprises. We were in the Underdark and-"

As he spoke, a scream rose up all about them seeming to blanket the sky. So loud was it that even Nathyrra's concentration was broken and she leapt for cover, narrowly missing Aniril. Dernhelm and Daelan flattened themselves in place and he reached over to pull his cloak about him, putting his hand on Daelan's back to keep him low and concealed. Tarlin thrashed awake, but Aniril tackled her, pulling his cape over her. Kern never moved.

Suddenly, a wave of black specks passed in the sky above, nearly one hundred of them, wheeling like waves in a tossed carpet. As the cloud descended toward the volcano, the specks resolved into gargoyles; their black wings cast large shadows across the twisted landscape. For a few moments they circled about the summit crater and then they scattered in all directions like rays from some demonic sun, passing above the ground in small groups as if searching. One group passed directly overhead but did not notice them and soon the sky was clear once more.

After several long moments, Dernhelm released his hand from Daelan's back and went into a low crouch. With a grim yet contented expression, he smiled humorlessly at the companions.

"He is searching for us," he said. "Obviously the ruse worked. He's looking everywhere; he has lost our scent."

As the sun rose to its zenith, Tarlin rubbed the last sleep from her eyes as she chewed on a slice of dried beef. She flexed her shoulder tenderly, but soon she seemed to be able to move it without difficulty. In contrast, Aniril sat like a tightly coiled spring ready to unleash at any instant and Daelan gripped his axe with his usual determination. Only Nathyrra was smiling, a cruel, wicked smile.

"I never like someone knowing where I am without me understanding how they do it. I now am going to test that. We will approach the volcano while invisible," she said flatly.

Dernhelm gave her a pensive look. "Makes sense," he said. "But wouldn't that alert him instantly?"

"I've been thinking about that. In the high pass, it took several hours for his cronies to reach us. I felt no teleportation spell and for so many so close, you know I would have."

Dernhelm nodded.

"This leads me to think they were already in the area, maybe on patrol, and when we passed a ward placed over the mountain pass, he somehow contacted them to come after us."

"But if you cast a spell here, being so close to his seat of power, he could have his minions on us in minutes," Aniril suggested.

"Trust me. We haven't seen the gargoyles in a while and it would take nearly thirty minutes for anyone else to reach us," she said, gesturing at the milling camp. "By that time, we will already be out of the area. And for such a small group, they'll miss us."

Daelan leaned forward. "But when they don't find us, they will search, and Ugluk will be alerted and have a stronger guard."

"I don't think we can help that," Dernhelm replied. "Any ward we cross this close may alert him to strengthen his defenses."

"And as for the searching," Nathyrra smiled fiendishly. "We won't have to worry about that."

Everyone looked at her quizzically, but she just continued to smile. Her grandstanding lasted several more moments and then Nathyrra became serious.

"When I give the signal, we move," she said. "Get ready."

Tarlin quickly repacked the beef in her leather scrip and hefted her sword. Dernhelm said a silent prayer to Ao and gently rubbed his hand along Aribeth's broach again, bringing forth that comfortable yet momentary surge of warmth. Nathyrra, on the other hand, sat motionless, her staff held loosely before her in both hands. After several moments, the crystal sphere on her gnarled staff began to flicker faintly. In seconds, the glow brightened considerably and Nathyrra used one hand to pull her cloak about it to shield it. Suddenly, the sphere flashed with an intense light, illuminating only Nathyrra's face, and then went dim.

Nathyrra got to her feet and everyone else did likewise.

"Stay within twenty feet of me and attack nothing or you will break the spell," she said matter-of-factly. "Dernhelm. Take the lead."

And with that, they were off. They climbed out of the defile, passing under the sparse tree cover, and the distant camp was temporarily screened from view. Even over the short distance, however, as they approached the line of desolation, the air became noticeably more stale and humid. For a moment, Dernhelm had them pause just outside the dead zone as he surveyed their surroundings. Nothing was moving in the immediate area and they still couldn't see the camp. They moved forward.

The smell of sulfur and decaying vegetation hit them like a club, causing them all to grimace and Kern to toss his head. It was like they had crossed some invisible, razor-thin line of horrible. At the same time, something akin to a wave of fear tickled at their minds and they had to concentrate on ignoring it.

As they passed into the zone of gnarled trees they suddenly had an unobstructed view of the camp. It was swarming like a kicked anthill. Groups of orcs and trolls were scrambling to grab weapons and armor and some were already heading directly for the defile in which they had sheltered. Faint cries could be heard in the distance, portending the return of the gargoyles. The reaction to Nathyrra's spell was faster than they had anticipated but they were still in no danger. Dernhelm turned aside, however, and for a time went tangent to the volcano so to give anyone approaching a wide berth.

Nearly thirty minutes later they had emerged from the gnarly wood and were astride of the camp, five hundred feet to their left. Several large trolls and ogres still sat as if at leisure, large clubs close at hand but untouched. Most of the camp had emptied and looking back, a long line of armed creatures stretched into the distance.

With his acute vision, Dernhelm could see a particularly large group surround the defile while a contingent of gargoyles hovered overhead. Suddenly, the entire group disappeared in a massive fireball which radiated outward nearly forty yards in all directions. The gargoyles tried to escape, but most were either directly incinerated or caught in the conflagration of rocks, burning trees, and body parts that twirled through the air. The shockwave reached them a moment later and they all clapped their hands to their ears to block out the deafening sound.

The trolls and ogres still in camp jumped to their feet and seemed to move about wildly as if so completely stunned as to have lost all direction. Many of the living trees beyond the dead zone were burning and the surviving creatures were running to and fro. Nathyrra took her hands from her ears and smiled, cruelly, wickedly, and without a hint of sympathy, but also with only a hint of elation. It was just something that had to be done and she had done it flawlessly.

Daelan and Aniril had mixed looks of horror and amazement, but Tarlin nearly dropped to the ground laughing. Dernhelm, for his part, merely shook his head. Used to Nathyrra's flamboyance, he was more affected by Tarlin's response. What Nathyrra did was necessary, and though it didn't repulse him like it once would have, it filled him with nothing even approaching glee. For a short while, he looked at her coolly as her laughs subsided, gauging the behavior so uncharacteristic of a fraternal comrade. If she understood his concern, she gave no outward sign of it, watching the conflagration with a small smile.

It took him several moments to refocus the group, but soon they reached the foot of the volcano and began to climb. Ahead of them, they could see two heavily armored minotaur standing guard over the cave entrance, their long-hafted great axes propped against the rocky ground. The climb was short and easy as the path was well-worn and clean of debris. The cave was bounded by two curved walls that formed an archway, like a natural tube of lava, and recessed about five feet from the semi-circular opening was an iron-bound wooden door. The minotaur appeared to look right through the group and it was evident they were trying to determine what had become of the commotion in the distance.

When Dernhelm shouted "Now!" they were clearly startled to see five people and a massive bear appear out of thin air and even more startled to be instantly pinioned by crossbow bolts, arrows, and assorted bladed weapons. They collapsed soundlessly.

"Should I recast the spell of invisibility?" Nathyrra asked as Dernhelm quickly bent over the minotaur to check for any magical items such as wardstones that may permit them entrance. Kern nuzzled one of the bodies but quickly wrinkled his huge nose in distaste; he sat back on his haunches to wait. Aniril merely spit on them in contempt.

"No, it's unnecessary." Dernhelm regarded her thoughtfully from his crouch. "To do so would alert them that we are just outside which kind of negates the purpose."

"As far as we know," he continued. "They still think we're a mile or more distant." He finished searching the bodies and stood up.

"So no spells of unlocking," Nathyrra said sighing, suddenly flippant. Pulling out a series of tiny strips of metal she walked up to the door. "You're so old-fashioned," she remarked over her shoulder.

"It comes from being sixty-two. You'll understand when you're older," Dernhelm said softly. Nathyrra's back stiffened. At one-hundred and forty, she was not yet considered middle-age according to the development of full-blooded elves, though she had lived more than twice as long as Dernhelm, which made the quip doubly insulting.

The door was large but simply made, a six-foot diameter circle of hardwood wrapped around the perimeter in studded iron and crossed in a lattice of iron bindings nearly half an inch thick. Inset at the rightmost edge was a wide keyhole. Nathyrra probed it with her strips of metal for a few moments before producing an audible click.

"You'd think a simple door would be inadequate protection," Nathyrra remarked.

"True," Dernhelm said as he pushed the door. It swung in silently on well-oiled hinges. "But who else would get this far?"

Stepping through the entryway, a short tunnel emptied into a larger chamber with walls of columnar basalt sandwiched at an angle between falls of ash and scoria, with numerous passageways connecting with it; the room was lit from above from large fissures in the lava ceiling. At the far end, two large metal doors barred their passage. That is, if they pointedly ignored the two humongous rock trolls and several orcs and minotaur, standing in the open space, their weapons all drawn as if they had been expecting Dernhelm's arrival.

More trolls, orcs, and minotaur began stepping out of the side passageways forming a semi-circle around them, leaving only the portal at their backs as an escape route.

With a creak of iron in bad need of oil, the far metal doors opened wide but the intervening creatures screened who had emerged. Then the back rows parted and the twinge of fear rose up in Dernhelm's heart a second time. A large ogre with a giant nose and a spiked collar about his throat stood at the back of the assembled warriors, a cape of purple fabric decorated with runes outlined in gold hung from his back. In his right hand, an iron scepter topped with an egg of black onyx rested comfortably, its long handle the size of a tree trunk touching the floor. The rock trolls moved in line on either side of him like a guard of honor, their massive limbs hanging at their flanks, but their huge eyes in blunt faces alert.

The twinge was because of the intelligence Dernhelm saw in the ogre's eyes.

At his appearance, Aniril practically launched himself directly into his enemy's arms but Dernhelm clutched onto his tricep with a death embrace. Rational thought following slowly after instantaneous rage, Aniril finally quieted down and relaxed. After several moments, Dernhelm let him go. Ugluk wore a bemused expression and waited silently.

"The great Dernhelm arrives at last," the ogre said in perfect Common Speech with no hint of the guttural noise characteristic of the goblinoid family. His voice was a deep bass, almost gravelly. "Surprised that we would be able to respond so quickly to your theatrics? I am more powerful than you would expect."

"Ugluk Maneater," Dernhelm stated flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. The ogre dipped his head in acknowledgement of his name, his eyes riveted to Dernhelm's from the moment he had seen him. "I have heard that before. From hundreds of enemies in countless battles. And they are a testament to say that _I_ am more powerful than _you'd_ expect." He figured threatening via his fame may be useful.

Ugluk laughed. "Oh I am well versed on how powerful you are. You have been the object of my study for a long time." He sneered in derision as he would to a bug.

Again the twinge of fear, but this time for more than the glimpsed intelligence. A person of his fame in this part of the world may likely be the study of ne'er-do-wells, but it was the subtle hint of some hidden knowledge the other possessed that put him on edge. He almost had the feeling that he had met this creature before. He squashed his fear with a bluff.

"Well, then I am glad I need no introduction," he said with a sneer. Out of the corner of his eye Dernhelm could see Nathyrra preparing in a low voice the words of a powerful spell. He couldn't understand the words, but he could guess the effects. Ugluk was foolish to reveal himself.

Although for Dernhelm and his companions to think that they would get out of here easily would also be foolish. The enemy warriors had grown quite in number. They were outnumbered nearly four to one.

No one made any move.

"Yes you _have_ heard it before…but-."

A threat of force, maybe? Dernhelm cut him off. "Let's dispense with these ridiculously false pleasantries, and let's just get to it," he said, as he unlimbered Enserric.

"Ooo," Enserric cooed. "Is it time to see internal organs again?"

Ugluk was unfazed. "Yes, lets-"

Suddenly, a coruscating cloud of red light outlined a half dome that surrounded the party to a distance of no less than two feet. Nathyrra smiled viciously and answered the enemy attack with a hail of lightning, burning a three-foot hole through each of the rock trolls and setting many of Ugluk's other minions on fire. Blue energy danced scant inches from Ugluk.

His eyes widened as big as saucers and he turned on his heel to run, pushing startled orcs and minotaur out of his way in his haste. Dernhelm's group broke into action, Daelan's axe spinning a bloody path through his enemies before they could regroup. Tarlin laid about her with her sword and blue fire shot from Nathyrra's hands. Aniril made as if to run after Ugluk but Dernhelm restrained him.

"He's for me," Dernhelm said quickly. "And you know why. I'll get revenge. Trust me."

Aniril nodded slowly as Dernhelm took off at a run. Behind him, Aniril drew his sword.

Using Enserric as much as a lowered shoulder, Dernhelm pushed through the milling mob as he chased after Ugluk. They were too startled at this turn of events to prove much of a hindrance. He could see one of the large metal doors swing open, and then he broke through the crowd and dove into a roll past the entrance. The hairs on his body stood on end as a bolt of electricity passed by where his torso would have been. Coming to his feet, he could see that the ogre-mage had momentarily stopped, but failing to injure Dernhelm, he bolted again.

The room in which Dernhelm found himself seemed like a guard barracks, replete with unkempt bunks, tables covered with forgotten food, and massive barrels of ale. The floor was cluttered with junk and small navigable aisles provided the only pathways of movement. The barracks was so arranged that it took Dernhelm some time to maneuver, but Ugluk seemed unhampered by the familiar surroundings and quickly increased his lead. His face, however, reflected fear whenever he looked over his shoulder.

Ugluk was getting away. Dernhelm increased his pace, forcing his body to its limit. He jumped over one aisle of junk and rolled over a table, spraying half-eaten food and mugs of ale everywhere. He nearly stumbled at some unidentifiable mess that he found his planted foot on, but he continued moving forward and managed to stay upright.

At the far side of the barracks, Ugluk darted through a small, well-lit doorway, Dernhelm quick on his heels. The doorway opened into a large vaulted chamber, graced with a gilded throne at the far end and numerous golden lampstands. Several large wooden tables were arranged in various positions covered with what appeared to be maps and – Dernhelm guess – plans. In the center of the room, a small pool of water ten feet across had been dug, its water azure blue but strangely opaque. To the left of the throne a small doorway stood closed. It was for this doorway that Ugluk was making.

The pool stood between them. Dernhelm knew that Ugluk would reach the door before he could catch him. With a last well of energy, Dernhelm leapt across the pool in an attempt to bridge the gap. The distance was not far for someone of Dernhelm's skill and he planted both feet on the far side. As he did so, his eyes locked with Ugluk's. The ogre mage had stopped and turned in that moment and he stood as if now waiting for Dernhelm. So strange was the change in the ogre that Dernhelm hesitated.

When their gazes met, Ugluk's eyes suddenly flared with a wicked red light. His mouth opened and a deep booming voice that seemed to fill the entire chamber spoke. The voice was completely unlike the one Ugluk had used before.

"I told you you could not escape," the voice said.

Dernhelm stumbled in shock.

A blast of energy struck out from the ogre mage catching Dernhelm full in the chest lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward into the pool. He struck the water with a splash.

His companions made the room just in time to see him hit the water. With a gasp they stopped in their tracks. Blue lightning danced across Ugluk's fingertips at the far side of the pool. The water grew still.

Dernhelm coughed and stumbled against one of the ruined gates of Neverwinter. His body was weak to the point of collapse, but something drove him on. She drove him. He looked down at his mailed fist. A spot of blood graced the cracked leather.

He had a rag to cover his nose, but he forced himself to take everything in. The stench was overpowering. To his left, one of the outer towers had collapsed, and among the broken steel and mortar he could see jagged shards of Nyatar's oak standing out in stark contrast. The Cloaktower ended halfway up in a uneven stump, fires still crowning the top, likely fueled by some alchemical brew.

The entire left wing of the Temple of Tyr had collapsed and most of the building was blackened by fire, yet Dernhelm's heart did not sink. He had just come from the ruins of Port Llast and Fort Ilkard. Pushing aside images of mutilated babies, he moved on. When he reached Justice Square he stopped. Though he was invisible – and he felt invisible too: cold, empty, and alone – he needed to be cautious. There was too much at stake to get careless now.

A sudden movement to his left caused him to draw his greatsword. Broken halfway down the blade he could no longer think of it as Enserric, who like everyone else he knew, was dead, the binding magic faded as it snapped. An orc was sitting in the doorway of Marrok's forge, eating the belly out of a dog it had grabbed by its legs. He could see fires throughout the city center, and while most of them were products of the city's destruction, some seemed well-tended – undoubtedly fueling orcish cook pots.

Sighing, he turned toward Castle Never. Its once gleaming doors of iron-bound oak were twisted and broken. As he made his way across the square, he could see several of the Uthgardt Black Lions hidden amongst the debris, guarding the castle entrance. He said a silent prayer to whatever gods may be listening; though they were his enemies, he was glad at least some had survived the Wailing Death. Staked in front of the hole of the castle gates, however, was what drew his attention. Covered in tar to prevent decay, Lord Nasher's head stood impaled through the mouth, his eyes open as if in surprise. His characteristic ponytail had been hacked off unevenly below the stump and the remaining hair stuck to his head with tar and blood. Aarin Gend's head hung next to his, crudely shaved and forced into a grimace before rigor. Eltoora Sarptyl, Neurik, and Sedos Sebile were staked bodily in a line, and all had been severely mutilated. All of Neurik's limbs had been removed and he had been disemboweled; ravens were feasting on his intestines.

Swallowing his gorge, Dernhelm forced himself to turn away. Carefully picking his path, he slipped past the Uthgardt and entered the ruined castle. The interior was dark; all the foyer stanchions were unlit. Sidling against the nearest wall to get his bearings, he nearly choked. The smell of smoke hung thickly in the air and the walls felt covered in soot. The smoke also acted to impair his half-elven vision, but his familiarity with the castle permitted him to reach the grand staircase. Hugging the walls, he began to climb.

The second floor was dimly lit, and large shapes the size of ogres lumbered about. Behind several closed doors, he could hear muffled screams and sounds of struggle but he forced himself to ignore them. She would be in the throne room, not here. The third floor was much the same as the second but brighter lit, and when he reached the top floor, the stanchions and wall torches looked well-tended, the floor swept clean of debris. Here the air even felt cleaner and the screams were diminished in intensity. The throne room doors were opened wide and he could hear coarse-singing and shouting from within, the voices guttural and harsh.

For a long moment he stood outside the entrance, hesitating to proceed. He was gambling everything on the next few moments, gambling the entire fate of the North. He regretted the day that all of this responsibility had come to him! Everyone close to him had died or fled, but always he was forced to give of himself to try and save everyone else. And now it had come to this.

Peering around the corner, ogres and orcs milled about the throne room, swilling cheap ale and singing bawdy songs. The throne room was in shambles. All of the tapestries Nasher had collected over the years were torn and laying in heaps about the room, some clearly used for orc bedding, and all of the furniture had been hacked apart, fueling cookfires on the bare stones of the floor. The smoke curled up through a massive rent in the roof of the throne room, the product of some large ballistic.

Nasher's throne, fashioned by elven smiths in the days of Halueth Never, was the only relic still intact. Upon it sat a figure clad in black plate and mail, a long skirt of leather stretching from mail to booted feet. Aribeth's skin was pale, appearing nearly white against the mail, and the once beautiful locks of her honeyed-brown hair were hacked unevenly to hug her head; her hair stuck out randomly, giving her a wild and disheveled appearance. Her eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark skin and she was very thin. One of her legs was casually draped over the throne arm, her hand-and-a-half sword propped against the wall nearby. In her right hand, she held a crudely-fashioned cup.

Dernhelm nearly wept. This was the first time he had seen her since Luskan and his heart ached at how far she had fallen. His hand clenched on his sword hilt until his knuckles ached. With one stroke, he could rid the world of one of its greatest threats. With one stroke, he would make the first act of retribution to the world for the wanton slaughter of women and children. With one stroke, the army of darkness would be destroyed.

With one stroke… and his heart broke.

How could he have convinced himself that killing her was a possibility?

He knew instinctively that such an act was inconceivable.

It was impossible for him to view her as the enemy she was. They had come so far together before her betrayal and… he loved her with all his heart. How could he have believed he could have killed her now?

And in that moment he knew why he had come. It was a gamble, true, but for an entirely different purpose.

He walked into the room slowly, avoiding the orcs and detritus so as to not make any noise. Stopping mere feet before the throne, he drank in every bit of her and tried to suffuse her with whatever light and life he had left in him. It felt like a chasm of blackness separated them.

Suddenly she looked up.

"Dernhelm?" she inquired, her voice was harsh like rubbing stones together, as if she had spent the whole night weeping and her throat was raw and dry.

Dernhelm was shocked. He knew he had been as silent as possible; she could not have heard him. She must have felt his presence just like she burned in his heart. He fell to his knees with a thud. Taking off his ring, he let her see him with her own eyes.

"Aribeth" he began, his voice small and weak. Around him, orcs and ogres looked up startled, and then grabbed whatever weapon lay to hand as they saw their most hated enemy. He ignored them. "Ari… Just like you wanted, I have come."

She raised her hand and surprisingly, the commotion in the room stopped as if cut like a knife.

"You said… you said if I gave myself up… you would stop all of this…"

She leaned forward and took his chin in her left hand. It felt so cold.

"And what did you think I would do with you?" she said, her eyes glowing blackly. Her eyes were devoid of emotion. That is, they were devoid of any emotion sanctioned in a civilized world. Words of hope caught in his throat at the look in her eyes and they nearly stumbled over each other in their need for escape past his lips.

"I figured… I don't know…" his heart hurt. He wanted this to be over. It felt like a nightmare. He could feel the gamble – all the gambles – falling apart like a house of cards in a strong wind. "I figured… somehow… we could be together… after this is over."

She sat up suddenly and laughed, a cruel, wicked laugh that took away his breath. Huge, rough hands seized him around the neck.

"Over? My dear Dernhelm… with you out of the way, the _real_ fun can begin."

He could hear her screams. Deep, raw-throated screams which nearly shattered his eardrums. Before him stood a massive troll, its warty skin and pointed nose dripping green ichor. Raising Enserric, he plowed into the troll, nearly taking them down in a heap. The troll's claws tore at his armor, and he could feel fresh blood flow down his chest, but he barely noticed. Burying the sword to the hilt, he twisted and pulled, the sword coming at an angle out of the troll's neck. Removing its hands from Dernhelm to clutch at its throat, Dernhelm kicked it and dodged around it, not caring to kill it so long as he reached Aribeth. As his blood flowed he made a silent prayer that he could hang on just long enough to free her.

He rounded the corner in time to see an orc close a wooden door to bar his passage, its face alight with concern. Lowering his shoulder, he struck the door with all the force he could muster, snapping the bolt out of its crude housing and crushing the orc to the floor in a shower of splinters. With the intuition gained from countless battles, he could feel others standing now above him, having burst into a room occupied by more than the orc which struggled futilely beneath the weight of half-elf and old oak. He tried to turn, but he had used up nearly all his strength. A rusted scimitar took him in the left pauldron, ripping it from his armor and taking the skin off the top of his shoulder. He screamed in pain and lashed out, catching an orc in the knee with his sword. The orc looked down at a leg that suddenly spouted blood and collapsed.

Forcing himself back to his feet as fast as he could, three more orcs stood uncertainly before him, their weapons held at the ready. They hesitated only because of the ferocity with which he had injured their two companions. After a moment, one of them pulled up its courage and advanced with an awl-pike seeking to skewer the shaky half-elf. Dernhelm severed it midhaft while punching the orc in the face with a mailed fist. Seizing the initiative he leapt forward, catching another orc in the throat, opening it from neck to shoulder in one blow. Behind him, his mind registered the sound of an oncoming troll, but he was focused elsewhere: only one orc remained standing.

Drawing on his last reserve, he raised his sword and launched himself at the orc. But his vaunted skills failed him; he had lost too much blood.

The orc easily sidestepped the tired swing and struck him in the sword arm with a war hammer. Dernhelm's humerus shattered under the impact and his sword flew from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Staggering against the wall, he looked at the orc completely shocked. A dagger hung in easy reach of his left hand, but all thought had left him. He had never before suffered so grievous a wound that his left arm was unable respond to the demise of its mirror image.

His mind tried to come to grips with the startling realization that he was about to die. Death had always been a possibility – truly a certainty – but never had it come to being his reality. And now it stared him in the face with a wickedly smiling, piggish snout complete with a descending hunk of dense wood.

What was worse, as if the sheer thought of his imminent demise at the hands of the orc was insufficient to stun his mind, he gasped.

Over the orc's shoulder, he beheld Aribeth, her leather skirt ripped off and her mail pushed up past her hips, an orc astride her.

"_Why doesn't she fight back?"_ he thought suddenly in his daze, and it was then that he realized that all her limbs were broken and twisted at odd angles, her face bloodied and missing teeth. With each thrusting of the orc, she screamed.

Nasher held the babe up in his rough hands, turning him about in the light as if to see him from all angles. Squirming, the brown-haired baby pulled innocently on one of Nasher's mustaches.

"So this is he?" Nasher asked in a flat, strangely emotionless voice.

"Yes," Dernhelm replied. "Aribeth and I decided to name him Carmon. It's a combination of her and my father's names." Dernhelm was ecstatic. The baby was less than two days old, but he had been so excited that he made a special trip to show him to Lord Nasher. After all he and his wife had been through together, the child was a testament to Aribeth's salvation and reformation as much as he was a product of their love.

It had been ages since Lord Nasher had used this reception room, foregoing needless extravagance for simple practicality, but he had surprised Dernhelm by offering it to view the baby in private. He had said that a momentous occasion such as this required a grand response. Dernhelm, amazed yet contented to oblige, relaxed in one of the opulent chairs, a glass of the best wine from Nasher's stores held in a silver chalice in his right hand. Aribeth had dressed him in his finest regalia, forcing him to leave even his chainmail behind. Practically born in armor, he felt weird not girded for war, but the softness of the chair made him question again if he shouldn't invest in some "needless extravagance" for his own home. He had even left Enserric at home, content to only wear a small meat knife. For the first time, he felt truly at peace.

Nasher, still holding Carmon before him as if disbelieving his reality, walked over near the stained-glass window. He was about twelve feet from Dernhelm.

"So," Nasher began, in a strange voice. "Is this how you repay me?"

Shaken out of his royal revelry, the hairs on the back of Dernhelm's neck unexpectedly stood up at the tone of Nasher's voice.

"What do you mean?" Dernhelm asked.

"By… by having a bastard child with that traitorous witch!" Nasher shouted as he spun to look at Dernhelm, the baby still held in his hands. His eyes blazed as spittle flew from his quivering lips.

Suddenly the whole situation took on an evil cast.

"Nasher! Give Carmon…" was all Dernhelm got out as the door opened behind him admitting mailed guards with swords.

Nasher raised the child above his head. Dernhelm leapt out of the chair at him, but the distance was too far. As he charged, a dagger caught him in the lower back, sending him crashing to the tiles. He tried to roll to his feet, but the knife had cut too deep, severing something vital. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Carmon flailing as he descended speedily to the floor.


	6. Chapter V: Revelations

**Chapter V: Revelations**

Dernhelm thrashed awake, tossing covers and a strange weight off his right side. Breathing heavily, he looked around. He was lying in his bed in his home in the Beggar's Nest and he was covered in sweat. His head throbbed and his thoughts… he shuddered and shook his head to stop the memories. Aribeth sat to his immediate right, her face was a jumbled mix of relief, terror, and surprise. By the position of her body, she must have been holding on to his hand – he had shaken her off in his throes. To her right, Tarlin sat looking as stark white as a ghost and Daelan leaned against the wall behind her looking strangely sad. He could see Lord Nasher beyond Daelan looking grim. Next to Tarlin, near the foot of the bed sat Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun, Lord Mage of Waterdeep. His black robes were gathered carefully around himself, as if he had been sitting there a long time, and his white-streaked black beard and hair were nicely groomed, but his eyes betrayed a deep weariness. His expression was somber yet included a bit of startlement. To his right, Neurik stood, his ancient dwarf frame bent, his shoulders barely sticking above the bed. He seemed the most weary of all, the crows' feet around his eyes like deep gashes in the leathery skin of his face, his long eyebrows drooping past his chin.

"Who…" Dernhelm paused, his mouth dry. "Who died? You all look like you're at a funeral." He managed a wan smile. He figured sarcasm was a good way of refocusing his mind.

Suddenly everyone seemed to talk at once.

"You're alive." Tarlin said, matter-of-factly. Her eyes held a hint of happiness that provided an odd counterpoint to her ghostly face and normally grim demeanor. Aribeth all but shouldered her aside.

"Praise be to Ao!" she said. "I don't know what I would have done without-"

"Next time you scare us like that, I'll kill you myself," Nathyrra said, stepping around behind Khelben, her lavender eyes tight with worry but her mouth baring glaringly white teeth in a sudden smile.

"Well met indeed," Daelan said, his features relaxing. Lord Nasher merely nodded.

"_You_ nearly did my good boy," Neurik said. "You've been unresponsive for a week."

Dernhelm looked at him in shock as he sat up, shakily and with effort. "A week?" He said suddenly, as he took in a deep breath to steady himself, and all talking stopped.

"Which is why we are all gathered here," Khelben said, his deep baritone sounding at a carefully measured pace. When he spoke, everyone quieted, content merely to smile at him in thanksgiving.

"_I guess that is the benefit of being old _and_ famous,"_ Dernhelm thought.

"Neurik's delving showed your body was completely healed but every attempt to awaken you failed," Khelben said.

As if to underscore the narrowly avoided danger in Khelben's words, Aribeth collected both of Dernhelm's hands in hers, her elven skin warm to the touch. For a moment Dernhelm turned his attention to her, though his brain was working overboard, and her face lit with thankfulness warring past all fear. Still, her eyes held unasked questions. Tarlin, not wanting to interrupt the happy reunion, merely stared at him, returning almost to her typical grimness, yet with that hint of happiness in her eyes.

"But how did _you_ of all people come to be here?" Dernhelm asked Khelben.

"The priests of Tyr communicated amongst themselves to discuss your condition. Finally, one of the priests in Waterdeep came to discuss it with me – I teleported here immediately."

"I'm flattered," Dernhelm replied, shocked.

"It's the least I could do for a friend and someone who saved my city," Khelben replied. In barely a whisper he added, "And my bar."

Dernhelm smiled. Only he and a few others knew that Khelben and Durnan were the same man. Only a few knew that one of the most famous men in all Faerûn couldn't brew good beer to save his life.

There was a long pause, and then Khelben spoke again. "Sorry to presume on you since you just woke, but we are all concerned-"

Nathyrra cut in. "You thrashed like you were having one hell of a bad dream. You! Nightmares! I don't think I have ever seen you have nightmares, and if you did, you certainly put on a happy face to fool the rest of us!"

Dernhelm would have blushed at the pseudo-praise, but her words caused the memories that he had barely kept held at bay to come trickling past the wall of his will and it left him feeling sick. Given his careworn appearance and the general level of his friends' distress, no one noticed. Well, no one except his living heart. Aribeth squeezed his hands again.

"Do you remember anything?" Tarlin asked.

Dernhelm looked at Aribeth and then lowered his eyes. Messing with the covers, his head broke out in sweat.

"I…" he began and then stopped. He just couldn't bring himself to think about it let alone say it. "It was noth-"

"If you insult us by saying it was nothing," a deep voice behind and to the left of the bed said suddenly. "I'll be very angry after having traveled all this way."

Dernhelm had to crane his neck to see the source of the voice and who he found was the last person he would have expected. A tall, white-haired, ancient-looking man was pulling his seat over so that Dernhelm could see him with more ease.

"Elminster…" Dernhelm was speechless. Though he had only seen Elminster once, after the death of Mephistopheles, this man was unmistakable. This was the most powerful man in all of Faerûn.

Settling himself, Elminster casually pulled a pipe out of his flowing red robe, and lit it with a flame that appeared briefly on his thumb.

"I heard of your plight from Khelben, and well, call it goodwill or curiosity, I had to come," he said calmly. His lined face broke into a small smile; from the little Dernhelm had learned about Elminster, nothing much bothered him. "It's not every day, a Hero gets badly injured." Elminster seemed to stress the capital, and while Dernhelm would normally have blushed furiously, his mind was elsewhere.

Sensing his distress, Elminster reached forward and put a calming hand on Dernhelm's shoulder. "Start from the beginning," Elminster said. "And take your time. I trust we won't grow old with the telling of it." He smiled.

The memories fought for attention in Dernhelm's mind, but he tried to reassert the iron clamp of his will to push them into the background as he had done before; a technique he had developed over all the intervening years. It was almost a losing battle. It was made even harder now that he had to reveal some part of his hidden past that centered on those very memories and to reveal…

He steeled himself. He had to! They had a right to know and he needed their help. Correction: they were _all_ would need help in light of this. Looking around at each face in turn he tried to gather some measure of comfort. Only Aribeth knew the story in full and he had told her only to have someone help him share this burden. She squeezed his hands as if reading his thoughts. He fixed his gaze on her as if telling _her_ a second time would not be as bad.

"I think the Great Enemy has…found its way into Faerûn," he began, then stopped, the rest of the words catching in his throat. Saying it, actually giving voice to his fears, seemed almost inconceivable. To think that the singular source of his life's dread may be present in the waking world…

Only having his wife and friends by his side and knowing that they were safe – for the moment – allowed him to continue. Aribeth gasped at his pronouncement and her nails dugs into his palms. The others look confused but all attention was focused on him.

"Well, there is an ominous beginning," Elminster remarked and Khelben nodded in agreement. "Now, if you don't mind removing the whole aspect of mystery…"

Dernhelm looked at him with a tinge of embarrassment. "Sorry. I figured I'd tell you the punch line first because the story is a long one."

"After all the time we have spent waiting for you to wake up, I am sure we can spare a little more," Nathyrra said with an unsure smile, trying to reassure him. And maybe herself as well. Lord Nasher slipped out the door and in moments he had returned with a servant bearing wine – it must have been pre-planned as Dernhelm had no servants. Dernhelm paused as the wine was distributed, but though Neurik nodded to the servant that Dernhelm was fine to drink, he left it untouched on the night stand. Aribeth swallowed hers in one long pull and then looked around to see if anyone would question her. No one noticed except Dernhelm, who said nothing.

He began at a measured pace; it was easier to discuss as it was not at the fearful part of the story. "When I defeated Heurodis and smashed the mythallar used to raise Undrentide, I had one chance to escape a long plummet to my death. I had discovered a magical device, an… astral door, I guess you could call it, that allowed me access to the Plane of Shadow. Seeing no other option I used it and disappeared from this Plane. This accounts for the decade that I was missing from Faerûn and-"

"I always wondered!" Elminster cut in, suddenly excited, his pipe waving about as he gesticulated with his right hand. "I have to admit, when I heard that an ancient Netherese city had been raised, I immediately came to the area to investigate. I arrived in time to find my old friend Drogan nearly dead and he told me about you. I was too late to offer you any assistance, however, but, I have watched your exploits since very closely."

Caught off guard by the old wizard's sudden interjection, and at the declaration of his attention, this time Dernhelm blushed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Elminster said, amused. "Do continue."

Dernhelm was unsure it was his affable nature or some subtle spell, but the old man's humor helped to calm his mind. He figured for a man of Elminster's age and skill, it was likely the perfect mixture of both.

"When I arrived in the Plane of Shadow, I found a world unlike anything I had ever experienced. The ground was insubstantial and it was hard to know up from down. Even the passage of time was impossible to determine."

Khelben and Elminster nodded in confirmation. These were well read and experienced men.

"I encountered a group of mystics or… shamans – they are hard to characterize – and they cared for me and taught me how to survive. I never figured out why they afforded me such kindness," he paused, recollecting, seeing their wizened, nearly insubstantial faces and filmy beards of almost-darkness. Shaltalazzar in particular had taught him how to see and had kept him alive in the early days from the attacks of…

"The Shadovar – the wizards of Netheril that had fled to the Shadow Plane – were lurking about then, predators that appeared almost at random out of the darkness. They had felt me come through a portal of Netheril design and they sought me out believing I carried artifacts of Netheril.

"One… day," he said it almost as a question since time has no meaning in the Plane of Shadow. "They found me and, when I would not give them the artifacts they believed I possessed, they wounded me. They would have killed me, but I managed to flee until I collapsed from complete exhaustion. The Shadovar were all but nipping at my heels." Aribeth clutched his hands harder, knowing where this was going.

"Suddenly I felt a presence and heard a deep, booming voice growing in intensity as if coming from a far distance. 'My age-old enemy. Now is my revenge. I come.' The Shadovar scattered like leaves in a tempest, clearly afraid of this voice. Similarly terrified, I tried to flee, but I was too injured. A being of… palpable evil appeared out of the darkness. It had a form, but I… I can't describe it." Try as he might, he could not get the image of that encounter out of his mind. It was true that the form of the creature was beyond description and only partially glimpsed in the filmy darkness, but that didn't stop his thoughts from replaying stark horror and a feeling of incredible insignificance more devastating to the psyche than any fully fleshed out abomination could do.

Aribeth squeezed his hands again.

"It thought I was a wizard of old Netheril just as the Shadovar did. The doorway I had used had drawn it. It survives by feeding on magic…" Suddenly, he turned to Elminster, asking a question both to help explicate the story even as he avoided yet getting to the crux. "Do you recall what caused the Fall of Netheril?"

Elminster regarded him with a cool eye. He sensed the diversionary tactic and normally would have understood, but in the half-elf's haste Dernhelm had also unwittingly insulted his intelligence specifically about one of the most important matters in his entire life. "Of course. Karsus of Netheril tried to become the new god of Magic in order to defeat the phaerimm. Mystryl sacrificed her life to stop him, becoming my goddess Mystra, and this transition temporarily stopped all magic causing Netheril to fall, both literally and figuratively."

"True," Dernhelm said, but with a touch of sadness. "But not completely."

Tarlin's eyebrows rose at Dernhelm's apparent effrontery, but Elminster was unfazed. The cool eye never left the half-elf's face, however. It merely stared it from under brow and over pipe.

"Karsus actually had attempted to summon _this_ creature," Dernhelm continued. "He believed that a creature that feeds on magic would utterly destroy the magic-spawned phaerimm, if he could just control it. But even non-magical beings that use magic extensively can fall under this creature's influence. It captured his mind and began to work through him to destroy Netheril even as he completed the spell of summoning. It used him like an umbilical cord to feed on the magic of his surroundings. But the creature is vast – huge – and try as it might, it could not come through the doorway he had created all at once. The other wizards could feel what had been done and quickly tried to stop it from coming fully into Faerûn. As Karsus was the strongest of them, they tried imbuing him with the power of Mystryl, thinking that would be sufficient to break the spell. In response, Mystryl sacrificed herself. The cessation of magic was the only thing that saved Faerûn."

At this revelation, Elminster glanced at Khelben, their faces unreadable. Elminster reclined into his chair, his brows drawn down and his eyes squinted as if he was trying to assimilate this information with what he had always held as truth to measure its veridicality. Several puffs of smoke emanated from his pipe.

"You mean it disrupted the creature's power when all magic temporarily ceased to function?" Nathyrra asked.

"Exactly. The backblast – like breaking a taut whip I guess you could liken it – sent it reeling back into the Plane of Shadow. But the disruption also caused it to be expertly attuned to Netheril-formed magic, just like how you see an afterimage of a candle in a dark room after it is extinguished. It was this that allowed it to find me. It sensed the usage of the astral door and it hunted me by the… fading scent of Netheril magic left upon me like a residue. So great was its hatred of Netheril that it would not be convinced that I was not what it sought. It tortured me…"

He would have cried then had Aribeth not fallen against him to hold him, her eyes glowing with unshed tears. No one else moved. The tenderness of the moment and the raw emotion should have embarrassed both of them, but the others seemed equally saddened and sympathetic for him, though they did not know the extent of the truth. Only Tarlin looked shocked. The happy glint in her eyes was replaced by a mixture of anger… and mild revulsion. After a time, he steeled himself, forcing the memories to the dark recesses of his mind. Finally, he looked at Khelben with a fierce expression. "But I escaped!"

Over the next two hours, he proceeded then to fill them in on the parts of his life with which they were more familiar. Enough had previously been known only to him and Aribeth that everyone was caught up by his tale, everyone that is except Elminster. He merely sat thinking – or brooding – puffing absentmindedly on his pipe.

"So this Reaper provided a bridge between Faerûn and the Plane of Shadow," Khelben said. "Incredible. I wondered how one day you just appeared in my city out of nowhere."

"So you are saying that the Enemy may have accessed the other door from the Reaper's realm to get to Faerûn?" Neurik asked as he played with his eyebrows. His face had somehow even deepened with concern, visions of death and pain stretching out before him.

"Yes, the door that I came through was somehow destroyed by Mephistopheles, since he controlled the Reaper," Dernhelm responded.

"But you have no idea where the other opened to?" Nathyrra inquired.

"None. The Reaper merely said 'The land through that door will not rise again until the ancient blight is destroyed.'"

"Well, that is cryptic," Daelan said.

"That could mean Netheril or Hellgate Keep or anywhere," Nasher remarked. He was pacing around the far side of the room, now stroking his mustache. Of all of them, Nasher was the most unsettled. In addition to this dire news, he was still thinking about the threat to his own city, and it weighed heavily on him.

"The good news," Elminster began in his perpetually calm voice. "Is that we may yet have some time."

The next morning, Dernhelm was up and walking around. The shock of the Enemy returning and all of his old fears being called up in his mind still played havoc with him, but he found he was able to cope. Everyone around him greeted him with a kind word or a smile of thanksgiving that he had recovered. Nasher had left his servants in place, and it diverted Dernhelm's attention to have to argue with them to not carry his towels, or help him dress, or make his breakfast. Nasher had even sent his own daughter to serve Dernhelm and he had to tell her in no uncertain terms he did not need her to wash his back. She smiled mischievously and smacked his butt before leaving.

In that time, Aribeth never left his side – which proved especially amusing and embarrassing when he had his bottom groped. After the others had left she had just sat there holding him for what seemed like forever. They had both suffered so much in body and in mind that they clung to each other, sharing in the other's strength.

When he had come down for breakfast, Khelben and Elminster were sitting at his dining room table discussing his revelation over tea and toast. Elminster smiled at him. "So, the Hero is awake," he said. And at the raised eyebrow: "Nathyrra let us in."

A black panther arose from where it had been curled in the corner and stretched gracefully, its back arching and its paws outstretched, one at a time. The panther walked over to brush up against Dernhelm's right leg. They all laughed, even the panther. "I'll leave you boys alone," it said before padding up the stairs.

"I have to get me one of those," Elminster smirked. Dernhelm looked at him, shocked, but recovered quickly. They all laughed again.

Moments later Aribeth came walking down the stairs with an open-mouthed expression, pointing the way she had come. Dernhelm did not know if it was for the panther or because Nathyrra may have changed unexpectedly. Since his wife did not express outrage at seeing a suddenly naked drow, he assumed the former. She was a very adaptable woman.

Warm toast covered in jam with a side of sausage sat on the edge of a counter and Dernhelm scooped it up before coming to the table. He didn't know who made it, but everyone should know that no food was safe around Dernhelm unless it had someone's name on it, and a dog and strong-arm to protect it.

"So, how do you feel today?" Khelben said, setting his tea cup back on the saucer.

"Strangely refreshed and calm," Dernhelm said as he sat. Aribeth ran her fingers along his back as she walked into the kitchen. As he looked up, she snatched a sausage from his plate, then deftly jumped out of his reach and proceeded to the pantry munching on her pilfered meat.

Smiling, Dernhelm looked at Elminster and Khelben who wore bemused expressions.

"I still don't understand how you think we have lots of time. Assuming the Enemy has come only partly through the Reaper's portal, we have no idea where this portal is, how far he has come, or how far-reaching his control is beyond the orcs."

"Can't we call him something other than the 'Enemy?' " Elminster asked.

"Uh, I think once it called itself Jangdwynyd." Dernhelm said, stumbling over the unusual word.

Khelben looked at Elminster. "Let's just call him the Enemy."

Elminster leaned back in his chair and looked at Dernhelm over steepled fingers. "I have spent the night alerting the Harpers and the Chosen of Mystra. I even traveled to Cormyr to speak with Alusair and Caladnei – I think she was the most surprised to see me."

"Our allies will be watchful for any news of this Enemy," Khelben said, serious.

"Vigilance is always the best policy," Aribeth said as she pulled a piece of toast out of her mouth and sat down at the table. "Did Demas reach you with news of a possible orc attack on Neverwinter and the cities of the North?"

"Just," Khelben replied. "He arrived not two days before I heard of Dernhelm's injuries. "I immediately set to mobilizing about three thousand of the City Guard, but it will take a while for them to get here. Probably two to three weeks."

"We have a little over a month until they attack the city if we can estimate everything correctly, so that's cutting it close, but I still don't see what their planning," Dernhelm said, setting down his knife and fork, his breakfast momentarily forgotten.

"That's the way it always is," Khelben replied and sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. "I have also alerted the Lords' Alliance and you may have up to two thousand more by the end of the month following if all goes as planned."

"But don't you worry about it," Elminster said, suddenly standing. "I'm returning to Shadowdale tonight to consult my library about this Jangdwynyd character and see if I can narrow the search." Elminster said the foreign word without stumbling. "No sense going haring off across half the north –you have enough to focus on with the immediate problems.

"Well… I'll see you," he said and disappeared without another word. Aribeth and Dernhelm started in surprise at the suddenness of his departure, but Khelben merely shook his head.

"He gets stranger by the year," Khelben said with a bemused smile. "And at over eleven hundred years of age… that's strange. Ah well, he's right. I should be going too. There is much to plan getting the reinforcements outfitted and much research of my own to do. Glad to see you hale and healthy. Prepare the city, and will be in touch."

Khelben disappeared with a poof.

After a moment, they turned to look at each other.

"And _he_ has the right to talk about _Elminster's_ idiosyncrasies? I wonder how old that makes _him?_" Aribeth asked.

They both laughed and then finished their breakfast.

In the evening, when Dernhelm entered the Trade of Blades, he learned that Aniril too was dead. Since he had awakened, no one had told him anything, content to let him recover unimpeded, cognizant of his other worries. Aribeth put her hand on his back as he set down heavily on a bar stool, and Fren the barkeep gave him an ale on the house but didn't stop for idle chatter as usual, sensing his mood. Deekin was nowhere to be seen and an attractive woman in revealing clothing had the stage, playing a hammered dulcimer and singing bawdy songs. Around him was the sound of merriment, yet none of his immediate companions had anything but somber faces.

When they had thought Dernhelm dead at Ugluk's hand, Aniril had gone into a rage and had charged at Ugluk taking the full force of a second assault directly in the face. Even returning via Stone of Recall had not been fast enough to save him. It was hard to believe that the twins were dead. Aribeth had already sent the grim news to their parents, but Dernhelm knew that the duty and responsibility fell to him. When the current crisis was over, he would have to make the sad journey to be with them in person… and grieve. Draining his ale, he just sat there and stewed. Even Daelan's recounting of Ugluk's gruesome death didn't help to change his mood.

The next five days passed with little note. Dernhelm busied himself with bolstering the cities defenses and even training some of the rural peasantry to act as relief militia. He sparred long into the night with Thurgan Marst to test his newly healed arm and even checked in on Tarlin's practicing much to her chagrin; she considered herself experienced and though he saw several areas in which she could improve, he could sense she was not in the mood for any criticism. Though he tried to divert his attention by filling his time, the thoughts of impending war and the unknowns surrounding the enemy made him more irritable with each passing day.

One night he was sitting at the dinner table entertaining Lord Nasher and Neurik. Aribeth had tilted her chair back and was reclining against the wall. They had exhausted pleasantries and tidbits of gossip and were returning anew to the things that lay heavily on everyone's minds.

"Meldanen's estate has finally gone up for sale," Lord Nasher was saying, attempting to prolong the idle chatter. "It seems that his family no longer cares to pay for upkeep all the way from Waterdeep."

"Yes," Neurik agreed, leaning forward on the thick cushions placed on the chair so he could easily reach the tabletop. "I have even heard that Formossa Senterei may actually buy it."

Aribeth chuckled. "Wouldn't _that_ be ironic?"

Dernhelm scowled; his mind was elsewhere. "Do you think I should send Daelan to the Uthgardt?" he said suddenly. The conversation was cut like a knife and all eyes turned to him. Happy eyes became hard at the subject matter.

"D, we've been over this. We've done as much as can and now we just have to wait," Aribeth said as she sat her chair full on the floor.

"I know," Dernhelm retorted, too harshly he thought, but part of him didn't care. "But you know I can't just sit here and wait for something bad to happen." Striking the table with his fist in frustration, Lord Nasher's tea sloshed out of the cup and soaked the tablecloth.

Dernhelm looked up, mortified.

"I'm sorry," he said and sighed. Nasher, however, was not offended, feeling the same irritation.

Aribeth reached across the table and touched his hand. "You should calm down," she said and fluttered her eyebrows meaningfully as if enticing him with cuteness. "But patience has _never _been one of your virtues."

Dernhelm gave her a mean look, but after a moment, he couldn't help but laugh. How could he stay mad at a face like that? "Dang her and her womanly ways," he thought.

"Don't worry. I've already sent some trusted men to the Uthgardt," Neurik said. "They'll come, you'll see. It will all work out."

Later that night, Dernhelm lay sleeping peacefully. When they had laid down for bed, Aribeth had positioned herself behind him with one arm draped across his side. Though this happened nearly every night, for some reason he felt especially calm in her embrace and quickly went to sleep.

His dreams were mostly peaceful: helping the Dalemen outwit the Zhentarim raiders and training with Drogan when he was young. He even thought of his father.

A muscular human with a broad face and a mane of silver hair sat in a chair in their home in Cormanthor. His thick arms were crossed behind his head as he reclined at the table smoking a large ivory pipe. Blue smoke puffed out in measured rhythm, but his father's eyes were closed. While he could not "walk the dream" as true elves did, his memories were real enough to almost touch, and he felt himself reach out as he always did as a child and touch his father's creased face and laugh. Always his mind would shift to another memory just before he touched his father and this time was no different. He sighed, and the dream transitioned.

He was playing amidst the haunted forests of Cormanthor as a boy, darting amongst the dwindle-mere trees, chasing a baby mudkip, trying to match its long, loping strides as it sought a large patch of muck to sink into. He remained constantly alert as his father told him, not wanting to be caught unaware by one of the dark denizens. The chase went on for a long time, and he found himself amidst a particularly thick group of the tall trees, their wide boles and huge canopies blocking out much of the light. He was unconcerned as little short of full dark could inhibit his vision. Reaching out, he touched the moss and then the spongy bark of the nearest tree.

It was then that he began to hear the strangest of noises. It sounded like a pounding hammer, but hollow as fist on wood heard from a long distance. He paused as he swung his wooden sword and looked about, but couldn't discern its origin. Turning, he laughed and parried as his father lunged at him. His father had been shadowing him this long distance, testing to see if his son would grow complacent. Their swords clacked together, the other sound momentarily forgotten. When the sound returned, it was louder than before and more insistent. His father did not seem to notice but swung his long branch at Dernhelm who nimbly jumped aside.

Suddenly Dernhelm felt cold and his eyes popped open, his father and Cormanthor and wooden sticks returning to distant memory. Only two things in this world could wake him: cold and needing to pee. The pounding was still there, hollow and distant, but the cold was what he focused on. A veteran of countless battles, he lay perfectly motionless except for his eyes, and cast about the room with all his senses. Nothing. The room lay perfectly still and dark. No shadows moved or boots scraped, yet the cold continued to flow across his skin, a light breeze that periodically grew in intensity but still barely discernible. Scanning the room again, the dresser by the door was bathed in pale moonlight. The bureau next to it was similarly lit but toward its far end the moonlight seemed to diffuse and become wispy, illuminating the furniture along an irregular edge. Then the irregular edge shifted and Dernhelm rolled from the bed onto the floor, drawing the dagger that he always had hidden behind his pillow. The cold briefly intensified and he heard something massive strike the bed, which shuddered, and then blew apart in a shower of splinters and feathers.

"Aribeth!" he cried and jumped to his feet lashing out with the dagger. The weapon momentarily slowed against something insubstantial and his hand nearly froze with sudden bitter cold. He almost lost the dagger in shock and stumbled backward. He heard the bathroom door open at the same time that the bedroom door bulged inward and was blown off its hinges. Nathyrra jumped into the room, her gnarled staff glowing with piercing white light, a shawl wrapped around her naked body, her only covering.

As her light illuminated the room, he heard Aribeth cry out in alarm. The ceilings in Dernhelm's house were ridiculously high – over twelve feet. Brushing the ceiling beams and still needing to stoop, a huge, humanoid-like body made of pure, smooth shadows loomed over him, its fist rising to strike again. The bed was a ruin, crumpled sheets tangled around the splinters of the frame. Aribeth wore a night robe and the small underclothes she always wore, her smooth, pale skin nearly shining with reflected light. She held her robe closed with one hand and gripped the doorframe of the bathroom with the other.

The creature swung its fist at Dernhelm but before he could react, a beam of light shot out from Nathyrra's staff, taking the creature directly in the chest. Staggering backward, its swing went wide and tore a hole through the side of the bedroom, showering stone and glass on the street, and letting in the night's chill – completely inconsequential compared to the biting ice of the shadow. As the light continued to hammer it in the chest, the creature let out a shrill cry of pain and turning to the side, suddenly shrunk in size and leapt from the hole in the wall. A loud crash signaled the creature striking the ground nearly twenty feet below; the street erupted in sudden, panic-filled shouts.

"Oh, no you don't!" Nathyrra shouted after a moment and ran to the edge of the room. Pointing her staff out into the street, the room was suddenly awash with heat as fire streaked from the crystal sphere. Wild shrieks filled the night air and after a moment all was still, the shrieks fading to mere echoes.

"Great…" she said as she turned back from the window. "It disappeared! I hit it, but puff it went in a cloud of… shadow…"

Her hesitation was not over the general nakedness of everyone in the room but over the inability to describe an abomination with no substance.

"What the heck was that and why was it after you?" It was blatantly obviously that the creature could have had no other target, Aribeth ignored by it completely, even when it clearly perceived her in the bathroom doorway.

But by this point, Dernhelm wasn't paying her any attention. He quickly scooped up Aribeth in a tight embrace, and ignoring the basically naked drow and his own propriety at wearing nothing but a loincloth, he ground her body against himself as he kissed her.

"I thought…" Dernhelm began after a moment. "If you hadn't gone to the bathroom…" And then words failed him.

They held each other like that for a long time, Nathyrra forgotten. Grabbing her shawl around herself, she slipped silently out of the room.

With dawn but an hour away, Dernhelm, fully dressed in his armor, stumped around the kitchen of his house as Lord Nasher filled him in on the details. In the aftermath of the attack, the city watch had all but surrounded his house, first on instinct, but then on direct orders from Lord Nasher. Several priests of Tyr had been summoned to cast wards of protection, and Nathyrra was consulting with Eltoora Sarptyl to identify the creature and its possible origins.

Lord Nasher himself had come after several hours, looking sorely angry. It was not however solely for the attack on Dernhelm. The rhythmic pounding Dernhelm had heard in his dreams was actually a page Lord Nasher had sent to summon both him and Aribeth to Castle Never. Two days prior, Luskan had been attacked by a large army of orc-kin. Nasher had only received word of it that night.

"Blast!" Nasher shouted and struck the table much as Dernhelm had done the day before, bringing forth a mess of spilled tea. Unlike Dernhelm, however, he offered no apology either not noticing or not caring.

"But we knew the orcs had some ace up their sleeve. We just didn't know that they had such a large army hidden in the Spine," Dernhelm replied dourly as he righted the teacup. However impossible it may seem, for them to have been caught off guard by a force coming out of the Spine, Barac, his heavily armored northern scout must also be dead. He sighed.

"Or that they could still mobilize it and so fast with Ugluk dead," Aribeth added. She was wearing a chainmail hauberk over a tight-fitting suit of leather; Ashalandar leaned in its scabbard against the remaining empty chair. Her expression was unreadable but Dernhelm knew she was upset. He could feel anger and frustration not in the Harper bond but in the insubstantial bond that marriage provided.

"Yes, but seven thousand! Not even counting your three and a half in the Crags! That must be every orc in the entire western Spine. Plus most of the trolls and ogres as well. It's like the Horde Wars all over again!" Nasher was nearly shouting.

Seeing that Dernhelm and Aribeth were silent, he subsided slightly.

"Luskan is sure to fall with seven thousand against less than two; there is no question of that." Nasher said in a calmer voice. "Then, I'd imagine the orcs will come out of the Crags and we'll have near on ten thousand to lay siege to Neverwinter."

"And depending on how fast Luskan falls, they could be here before Khelben's reinforcements," Aribeth added.

Dernhelm looked at Aribeth and sighed. "That means Luskan must stand for as long as it can. We can't afford to lose troops in a land battle and yet we have to be very careful about putting Neverwinter at risk by sending 'too much' aid." Seeing their faces he added, "I hate this just as much as you do."

Nasher sighed. Though the plan was perfectly sensible, it was hard to bury his hatred for the Luskaners.

"Send a thousand soldiers and three hundred militiamen. That draws our numbers down by a quarter but nearly doubles the defenders in Luskan," Nasher said, stroking his mustache. Aribeth nodded in agreement.

"That will take about ten days at the outside to see them fully committed. I'll talk to Neurik and Eltoora to see who they could send to Luskan's aid," Aribeth said, standing.

"Do you think they can hold for ten more days?" Dernhelm asked rhetorically. The Luskaners had no other choice.

"Luckily, the orcs have not committed any of their siege weapons or Luskan – and we – wouldn't even have that long," Nasher said at last. "With Arklem in control, they will."

"We know that their goal is us. We will of course keep the docks open and patrolled to watch for anyone fleeing Luskan," Dernhelm said. Nasher simply nodded.

Leaning forward, Dernhelm placed his hands on the tabletop. "I don't see any better way to prepare Neverwinter, and everyone that can be contacted has been. In two weeks I think we should see some of Khelben's Waterdhavians, but it all depends on perfect timing. I think I hate _that_ most of all."

Standing up, he began to pace again. Grinding his right fist against his left palm in frustration, he said a silent prayer for the protection of the people of Luskan. Aribeth and Nasher said nothing in response; they were lost in thought. After a moment, Dernhelm stopped and gave voice to what was on everyone's mind. "The Enemy is behind this, I'm sure of it. He was controlling Ugluk and so he must be controlling the orcs."

"That's as may be," Nasher retorted. "But 'Enemy' or no, the immediate threat to this city is the orcs."

"True," Dernhelm replied as he walked to look out the kitchen door into his small back garden. "But this means that the Enemy has much more power in Faerûn than we previously believed, enough to finely manipulate the orcs without needing some intermediary."

Placing both his hands on the lintel, Dernhelm stared off into the night.

"I just pray Elminster finds what he is looking for… and quickly."


	7. Chapter VI: A Nameless Guardian

**Chapter VI: A Nameless Guardian**

He had been waiting for six hours. The rain had died down to a slow drizzle before ending, and even the mist had since been burnt off by the shining sun. He let his hood fall back on his shoulders. No one could recognize him anyway and it was less conspicuous. His left hip complained a bit at sitting for so long in one place and he shifted slightly on the barrel to accommodate it. Thumbing through the wooden-bound book, he kept watching the door with one eye all the while seemingly engrossed. Although it was hard to be engrossed in the Tactics of Malpagian Ballistae.

An empty plate and a half-filled flagon of ale sat on another barrel to his left. A few coins kept the ale refilled and the questions minimal; he fended them off by striking up a dialogue of weight ratios, torsions, and load thresholds. He pushed up his glasses. Who would have guessed that a book of bawdy tales bound with wood and a little improvisation would have made him a scholar. He laughed softly to himself. If he knew people in the upper echelons of the Academy, he would like to actually present his "research."

The streets were their usual quiet, a few peasants hawking wares and the light song of a flute drifting out of the Shining Serpent, melodic accompaniment to the morning meal. To the south, he could hear the periodic sounds of hammering as Sedos Sebile put the final touches on the moat and wall along the south side of Neverwinter Landing.

He continued to study the house. The two-story dwelling was unassuming for one of Dernhelm's stature, a brick bottom floor with a wooden upper, windows opening onto the sounds and the smells of Rogan's Way in the Beggar's Nest. Well-tended flower boxes sat under the second story windows and a fence to the right of the main entrance hid a small, side garden. The sight always made him chuckle to think that two of the most powerful people in the entire city did their own gardening; they made a point of not having servants.

It had caught the city by surprise when Dernhelm had decided to locate here rather than the posh Blacklake or even the working man's Docks district. The thought that he would eventually be linked in the minds of the people to the average pompous aristocrat had twisted his insides like a worm, and he seized on the first, simple house available. The gentry were thrown into an uproar and one even sent a letter of protest to Lord Nasher. It availed them not.

Several of the elite sought some conspiracy behind his choice, thinking that it would somehow _raise_ his social standing and they soon attempted to purchase houses in the neighborhood. Whether by design or fortuity – he favored design – since much of land in the Beggar's Nest had been owned by the city in common since time immemorial to cut down on crime, most of their efforts were stymied and Dernhelm was afforded much privacy from spying eyes and nosy neighbors. Whatever the reason, moving into the Beggar's Nest was a master stroke, a coup that only one as shrewd as Dernhelm could have contemplated.

Depending on whom you asked, his choice had an even bigger effect on the district as his reputation alone squashed much of the once rampant crime. During his quest to stop the Wailing Death in Neverwinter, he had dispensed with many of the problems in the district, and his new residency ended many more.

The west side of the house on the second floor was covered with a big leather tarp to mask the hole through which the… thing had escaped three nights previously. It was so new a scaffolding hadn't even been erected to fix it. Work was further delayed by the impending "war." Nasher had deployed a squad of soldiers to guard the house as both Dernhelm and Aribeth stubbornly refused to leave, and he lifted his mug for a swig as two sentries with halberds passed by on their circuit around the block. Nasher could have ordered one hundred soldiers to guard the place and yet still he would be sitting there, watching.

Looking at the hole, he cursed himself for the thousandth time about not being more alert. He had been outside and yet he had seen nothing enter. When it had hit the street, he had barely gotten to his feet before it disappeared. He was fast, and he prided himself on being so, but never had he seen something move that fast, especially something injured and on fire. Reminding himself that it was clearly unearthly, a thing of magic, did nothing to calm him. He had been tasked with guarding Aribeth – never mind that Dernhelm's intent was to guard her only when he was out of town – and he would do so against whatever threatened her.

Dernhelm had left early that morning to check on the refugees from Luskan that had starting trickling in, searching for more information about the invading army. Miraculously, the city had held so far, undoubtedly due to the handiwork of Archmage Arklem and the few wizards still living in the city; the first ships carrying relief soldiers to Luskan should arrive later in the day. It was evident that Dernhelm was irritated by something, perhaps the annoyance of waiting for the inevitable attack on _his_ city, or possibly the unknown threat to his family's safety. He sighed. He hated waiting too, even though he was good at it.

"_I'd much rather be out wenching,"_ he thought. _"Or killing something that deserves it."_ He began to smile at some unbidden memory, but he mentally shook his head to clear it. Such thoughts could only be distractions, he reprimanded himself. To be the best, one had to be fully in control at all times.

As if in answer, the front door opened and Aribeth stepped into the street. Gone was the white leather garb which he loved so much – Dernhelm never said that he couldn't stare at his leather-clad beauty, especially when she was actively encouraging it – and in its place was a plate-and-mail vestment she normally used only for war. The fine chain mail shifted fluidly as she walked, the thin elven pauldrons slipping over it with ease. At her right side was strapped Ashalandar; she never went anywhere without it.

"I wonder if she even takes it off for the intimate moments?" he mused. For all that he was one of the best thieves alive, whether for respect or some tiny level of apprehension, actually entering their house to "watch" them was something he refused to do, even though he could have easily gotten away with.

The only thing missing from her battle garb was her shield, adorned with the lion, star, and cresting wave of Lord Ao. He constantly wondered at the change that had taken place in this paladin over the sixteen years since Fenthick Moss' death. He remembered clearly that day in Justice Square when the abbot had been turned over for the pleasure of the mob – as a young, inexperienced man, his voice had been one of the loudest. So much had changed since then. After his part in the saving of Waterdeep, Dernhelm had only been back about nine months before they were married, and in that time, Aribeth had come out of her nearly fourteen year long despondency, and was miraculously accepted as the Knight General of the Neverwintan Guard. In the definition of instantaneous change, this was its most obvious example.

At first he had been amazed that she was even alive and whole. For nearly five of those years she had been completely insensate, in a type of unconsciousness from which even Neurik believed she would not wake. And then one day her eyes opened and she smiled. She stayed in the Temple of Tyr for several weeks, regaining her strength out of the public eye until the call to witness this miraculous event became so powerful, she was forced to make an appearance. The reaction from the people couldn't have been more favorable. Whether it was just out of sheer awe that the "Sleeping Woman of Neverwinter" had awoken – she had been given that moniker – or whether as the last vestige of the Wailing Death still in the public mind, her awakening had put bad memories to rest, the people readily embraced her.

It was at that time that Dernhelm arrived in the city. And for the first time in his life, he saw Dernhelm grinning like a fool, a man he had known since he was a boy. The changes continued: Dernhelm was hailed as a Hero, of course, and given a grand welcome, but it seemed that the people viewed them together and treated them equally, something to this day he could still not fathom. Even her declaration of service to Lord Ao, a god neither he nor anyone in the north had ever heard of before, was met with acceptance. Several of the townsfolk, including the esteemed Eltoora Sarptyl, joined wholeheartedly into this new faith, and occasionally one of them could be heard discussing it with passersby in the streets.

It was as if a higher order was planning events –something he clearly did not believe. True, she deserved every accolade that the people lavished on her as she had proved her mettle time and again, but there was something about the situation that he could not explain. As a thief, he liked to look at problems from every angle, but this was one in which a piece was missing and he was determined to find out what it was. This, in addition to her being maddeningly beautiful, was why he liked the task of guarding Aribeth so much.

Aribeth stopped in front of the door, her auburn hair hung down her shoulders, swaying in the light breeze. Her right hand rose and gently brushed a small broach hanging on a chain about her neck and her eyes closed as if sighing.

The moment was short however; in the blink of an eye her face took on its purposeful cast and she turned west toward the main city, her long legs stretching out in ground-eating strides. He laughed to himself that neither she nor Dernhelm just walked anywhere; it was always "rush, rush, rush." Good that he was conditioned to keep up.

Waiting until she got nearly to the bend at the end of the street, he stood slowly, drained his mug and put his book in one of the copious pockets of his cloak. Setting off down the street after her at a measured pace, he scanned about himself, checking every rooftop and alley. Though there were few people out on the street, he had an air of casualness to him from long practice, and he knew she would not be aware of him unless she looked directly at him, and by then he would be hidden away. She traveled directly toward the southwest city gate and the Sleeping Dragon Bridge as he expected she would, no doubt on some official business or another in the city core.

They passed by Glinckle's bakery on their way to the gate and by this time, traffic had increased to the point that he found it even easier to blend in. The bridge spanned across a branch of the Neverwinter River, and as he crossed it, he could feel the warmth of the river ever so slightly, the lifeblood that made this city habitable. Flowers encircled some of the bridge supports, in well-tended stone boxes designed to show off the colors that could only be kept alive by the unique geology. This gave the bridge itself an almost humorous cast, a dragon sleeping so long that its back, upon which you crossed, sprouted vegetation to indicate its long torpor.

The humor was only slightly squashed by the city watch, which had been increased on every district entrance as well as upon the walls. Nasher knew that even the appearance of more guards had a calming effect on the populace. A guard eyed him as he passed the single latticed gate but his attention had soon slid on to other passersby, constantly roving the crowd for signs of trouble.

He laughed to himself. He was usually trouble enough for five people.

The Cloaktower stood smartly against the bright sky to their right as they entered into the core of the city, sticking up above all the houses, a bastion of magic in an otherwise down-to-earth, utilitarian city. The houses here in the city core were well cared for, implied richness but not opulence, and had a long history, most having been passed hereditarily for more than fifty years. Neverwinter was an old city by all reckoning, founded by Halueth Never almost two-hundred and fifty years ago. In the north, only Waterdeep was older and yet it was to this city that travelers referred to as the "Jewel of the North."

The Shining Knight's Arms and Armor came into view and as always, it made him smile. Sixteen years ago, Durga's shop was little more than a simple smithy catering mostly to middleclass clientele and then with only moderate success as the region was generally quiet. After the Wailing Death had passed, the region was too racked with poverty for many to afford weapons, or at least weapons of any value and, ironically, when war was on everyone's mind, Durga nearly had to close his doors.

Ever a friend of Durga and more so his partner Marrok, Dernhelm managed to secure them lucrative contracts with his spy network, trading their goods as far away as Icewind Dale. Of course, no one was supposed to know that this was how they stayed afloat… but he had ways of ferreting out information.

As with all market vagaries, the particular artistry with which they made weapons came in vogue and their business had taken off. The one story shop had grown to two and expanded to all but fill the square in which it was located. They even had employed a half-dozen apprentices and Brono, a skilled craftsman from Longsaddle. After so much destruction following the Wailing Death, and the privation to which the north had been subject, the success of this business acted to testify to the resiliency of the northern peoples.

For a moment Aribeth slowed as if Durga's shop was her destination but then her step quickened again and her body stiffened resolutely and she passed it by to the north. That simple act of slowing, which caused him to concomitantly slow his pace, alerted him to the presence of the other cloaked figure that was following her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure quicken its pace as well. The figure was broad through the shoulder and tall, over six feet, and moved fluidly, almost like one of the northern barbarians. It kept its shoulders hunched to mask its height, however, and he knew instinctively that this was no barbarian. All Uthgardt had pride practically oozing out of their pores, automatically making the professions of thief and assassin, which relied on stealth and subterfuge, strictly taboo. Aribeth had passed the row of houses on Wright Street to the west of Durga's shop and was heading in the direction of the Moonstone Mask.

The city of Neverwinter sat like a distorted letter X, spanning fully a half mile in total area, along the northern shore of the Neverwinter River. Each point of the X represented a different district, separated from the main city by a gate of iron and steel. The western edge of the city included a small peninsula of land which stuck out into the river, bordered on the south by the river and on the north by the deep, calm Halueth Bay. The bay was unusual on a river the size of the Neverwinter and located several miles from the ocean, and many believed it had once been a deeper valley that had been drowned when the seas rose. Though not truly a peninsula as it was cut off from the main city by a shallow, man-made channel linking the bay and the river, the Peninsula district sat on this small spit of land and housed the city jail, in order to keep it isolated from the city core. The Dolphin Bridge connected the Peninsula district to the mainland and was constructed in such a way that it could be easily destroyed should any severe problems occur in the jail.

All shipping occurred in the northwestern Docks district, the calm, deep harbor perfect for vessels with deep drafts. The southeastern end encompassed the Beggar's Nest from which they had come, aptly named as it was primarily home to the poorest people. The northeastern side of the city, separated by a small tributary across which the high-sounding Winged Wyvern Bridge spanned was the Blacklake district, home to the city's elite – all but Dernhelm and a few others. Each district was surrounded by a high stone wall, nearly fifteen feet thick and thirty tall, composed of white granite hauled at great expense from the Crags to the east. The city core itself was part of this outer ring, its southern end bordered by the river and its northern by the imposing Castle Never, the only true gate in the city on its eastern side. The interior city, a collection of buildings including the Cloaktower and the Temple of Tyr sat on a low hill and was surrounded by a wall ten feet thick and twenty high.

Wright Street passed the Moonstone Mask on the south, and a small alley, Urden Way lay between the Mask and the interior wall, running the length of this wall to the north end of the city and the castle. Aribeth turned down this alley and he knew it would be in that confined space that the other would make its move. If he truly intended her harm, he certainly would have.

The alley was lightly traveled at this time of day – it saw its largest traffic at night when the "courtesans" of the Mask hawked their wares to passersby going home from work – and at this moment, it was empty save for the three of them. The three stories of the Moonstone Mask on the left and the equally tall hill and wall made the alley shady; luckily, with the sun moving to its zenith, it was about as bright as twilight.

He wanted to curse Aribeth for taking risks with herself and he knew Dernhelm would, especially because she was pregnant – he was one of a select few to know – but he knew she thought of this as _her_ city, with the core of it being as safe a place as any. He would have agreed with her any day, but these were not normal times. As they drew astride of the middle part of the Mask, he could hear the sounds of muffled laughter and a hammered dulcimer from the common room, its accompanying singer no doubt tempting the audience with carnal thoughts. The northeastern corner of the Mask, just beyond, held a garden, separated from the alley by a low wall of stone. He always thought it odd that Ophala would have her girls engage in such menial and strenuous work as tending a garden when the real money lay elsewhere, but he suspected anyone who could keep such a business above the reproach of a mean cathouse had their reasons.

Since he had started following the hooded figure, it had neither looked behind itself or in any direction other than its intended victim, and he was therefore nearly sure that it was unaware of him. Still, though he closed the distance between them, he used everything in his power to mask his approach. Less than fifty feet away, the Moonstone Mask ended and Urden Way connected with Justice Road coming down from the Temple of Tyr and he knew it had come to the moment of action. As if echoing his thoughts, the figure ahead of him, less than five yards from Aribeth, reared up to its full height of nearly seven feet. And at that moment, a city guard stepped into the alley from Justice Road.

It happened in less than a second. The guard's first expression was a genuine smile for Aribeth followed closely by a widening of his eyes and a graying of his face as he looked over Aribeth's shoulder. As the guard looked fully on the figure, a light suddenly flashed in the guard's eyes, a tiny pinprick of white that seemed to intensify in less than a heartbeat. Without hesitation, and without stopping to discern what was happening, the man Dernhelm employed drew a short sword from beneath his cloak, and in one fluid motion lunged forward and plunged it into the tall figure's back.

The resistance he met with as the sword entered the other's body was not like anything he had felt before in the many people he had similarly dispatched. It felt like he was pushing through the toughest leather with innards of sinew and cartilage rather than the soft meat of humans. This fact surprised him greatly but, for one so trained in the murderous arts, not sufficiently that he didn't push the sword up to its hilt. He had no time to think about it, however, as the figure screamed the wail of a creature caught completely by surprise at its own imminent death.

Its head whipped around to look down at him, a face that could only be described as bat-like with a flattened nose, huge, ribbed ears that lay folded against its head under the cloak, and a mouth of fangs that was opened wide as it let out the blood-curdling scream. In its mouth, he could see a white light, coruscating energy that sought release out of its open jaws.

Now, it was his turn to be stunned.

So stupefied was he that not only did he let go of the sword, he failed to see Aribeth turn in horror or see her leap out of the way. The tall figure turned, the sword pushed completely through its back, causing its cloak to part in the front, and he beheld the two giant wings that would have identified it to even a moderately learned northerner. The creature before him was unmistakable, and as he beheld his own sword projecting from its chest, he knew he was going to die. Temporarily robbed of his training, he stumbled backward as the creature turned toward him, tripping over the wall. Not more than a foot thick, three foot high wall of stone separated him from the creature, but he hunkered down behind it as if it was a mountain. The creature reached out to attack him but stumbled, its long claws missing him, grasping futilely against the stone. With a last effort, the creature stepped forward, taking a clumsy swipe at his head, and collapsed on its knees against the wall. And then it exploded.

Dernhelm had just entered the Dock Gate when he heard the detonation. As proficient as a tracker as he was, he could feel it in the ground beneath his feet, and out of the corner of his eye could see the faint wisp of smoke to the southeast. While his senses could not tell him more, given the attack not three days past and the presence of the Enemy somewhere in the world, he had the sinking feeling the explosion involved Aribeth. He took off at a dead sprint.


	8. Chapter VII: What Will Never Be

**Chapter VII: What Will Never Be**

Aribeth awoke to pain, sudden and intense. She was lying on her back, propped at a slight angle, in a cushioned, four-poster bed draped with white, sheer curtains. The walls were painted off-white with an irregular, sandy texture, and lanterns hanging from iron hooks every five feet gave the room a strangely cheery appearance. She could see the outline of a door through the curtains beyond the foot of her bed, ornamented with the sigil of Tyr, the scales-on-warhammer design outlined in the faintest silver. Strange as it may seem, it was the room and the fact that it was not in her home that she first noticed.

Then the world came crashing back on her as she tried to turn her head, the pain so indescribable, that a hoarse gasp erupted from her damaged lips. Her head was held as tightly as possible in a wood frame to keep it immobilized, and after that first attempt at movement she forced her body to go slack. It required little effort as her body felt leaden and lethargic. She could see that her left arm was bandaged with a heavy wrapping and was laid at an angle across her chest and though she itched to move her fingers, she resisted the urge. Her lower body felt strangely free of pain, but though a whisper in the back of her mind shouted alarm, she was too exhausted to consider it.

As she lay there observing her body, the door at the foot of the bed opened and in stepped Dernhelm, almost gingerly as if he feared to wake her. His face was haggard, his eyes dark and ringed as if he had been weeping. She had seen that face only once before, in the dungeons under Castle Never when she had pushed him away in an effort to save him greater hurt.

"Now why did I think of that?" her groggy mind asked.

When he saw that she was awake, he let out a cry and dropped the tray he had been carrying; it struck the floor with the sound of breaking glass and pottery.

Rounding the corner of the bed, he ripped aside the drapes and then sank to his knees, his hands reaching out as if to caress her but stopping just short. His fingers opened and closed spasmodically and his lips parted as if he was about to speak but no sound came out. Finally a sigh emanated from his lips and he sagged against the bed as if he were a marionette doll whose strings had been cut.

"Wha-" she began, too weak to say or nearly think anything coherently. Part of her longed to reach out and touch him, but she could not see her right arm and it did not seem to respond to her feeble stimuli.

"Don't speak," he said hoarsely and nearly inaudibly, his words laced with tears, and his face still against the bed.

At last he looked up, his eyes taking all of her in a glance even as they locked upon her face. In the faintest voice, "I won't let you die," was all he said.

Lord Nasher veritably sagged into the chair in his study in Castle Never, his body feeling leaden and old. He had hastily taken off his armor, its normally comforting presence all but suffocating, and it lay strewn haphazardly around his office.

Deep in the heart of his city a magic creature had come unbidden and unseen, and though his inability to prevent it had unsettled him, he was ever adaptable to new situations; he simply ordered out more soldiers and employed Nathyrra's help. But now, in the blink of an eye, his Knight General lay gravely wounded, brought low by a creature practically out of legend, that had stalked through the city undetected by all but an inglorious thief. Few times in his life had he ever truly been confused by events around him, but now he was completely stunned.

Even his friends offered no comfort, as stupefied as he. Daelan sat on the bench nearest the door, his head buried in his meaty hands – not to hide tears, assuredly – as a measure of his concern. Nathyrra sat beside him, her eyes staring intently at a blank spot just above the mantle, the light of the fire reflecting eerily in her lavender eyes. Thurgan Marst stood leaning against the wall, his normally idly flipping dagger held by the handle, motionless in his gloved fist. Even Tarlin was quiet in her chair opposite the fire, but she bore not a face of sadness but one of anger. Every time someone mentioned how this might be affecting Dernhelm she seemed somewhat… irritated. He just couldn't figure her out – not that he had any attention left to spare.

In this way, the minutes turned into hours and went by in practical silence.

He just couldn't seem to come to grips with it, even as the weight of rule and requirements of the moment vied for his attention. The reports were scattered around his desk. Taleria said that Luskan still stood; the orcish force was content to merely dishearten the city with periodic attempts to scale the wall or lob human body parts into the city. So far, no massed attack had materialized. For all she knew, the battering rams were still "safely" in the Wood. The people of Helm's Hold had arrived that morning, over three hundred in number, and the sixty-two warriors had already sought places among the defenders. A hastily scrawled report said that a small band of armored kobolds had been seen east of the road past the Sword Mountains, less than three days distant; it seemed that "King" Deekin had been able to rouse his people.

"_Though I don't know how much assistance they can give,"_ he thought acerbically.

The sound of a door slamming shook him out of his reverie. Into the room strode Taleria, her small frame at odds with the heavy sound of her boots on the wood floor. She was practically stomping in fury!

"_What was she doing here?"_ he thought suddenly.

Walking up to the desk, she slammed her hands down. Her face was flushed and covered with sweat and road dust.

Raising an eyebrow at her effrontery he straightened in his chair. Everyone looked in her direction with quizzical expressions. No one expected to see her here in Neverwinter.

"The orcish force around Luskan has broken camp and appears to be making straight for Neverwinter."

Nasher jumped to his feet.

"What?" he shouted. "When did this happen? Your note says all is fine!"

"The day after I wrote that, everything changed. I rode two horses to death to get here as fast as possible. And along the road I saw the first sign of the battering rams. They seem to be attempting to link forces, nearly ten thousand headed this way. So much for 'safely.'" she said, indicating the report on his desk.

"Estimate. How much time?" Nasher asked, his right reaching up involuntarily to roughly smooth his mustache.

"At their current rate, slowly. But I would still only give them a week at the outside."

"And here we sit poleaxed because Dernhelm has personal issues," Tarlin interjected mordantly.

Nathyrra's eyes nearly popped out of her head in shock, while Thurgan coughed as if choking. Nasher on the other hand was livid.

"The man's wife is dying! Say anything like that again and you can get the hell out of my city, Harper or no!"

He had kept her ruse up until this point, not knowing what even Dernhelm's comrades knew or suspected, but at her comment he said the first thing that came to his mind, appearances and secrets be damned.

"The sheer flaming insensitivity!"

Tarlin held her tongue but she looked anything but like someone who had just received a scathing reprimand. She didn't even seem to notice the looks of anger and disgust lavished on her in silence by companions.

Turning around, Nasher flopped down in his seat, seething with anger. How was he supposed to defend this city when he had just sent the second group of soldiers to the defense of Luskan? It would take nearly a week to bring them all back home and even if they managed to arrive in time, his total garrison was only half the strength of his enemies. The first of the Waterdhavian reinforcements were likely two weeks away and on top of that, even in his own city he had his share of assholes!

The nerve of that girl! How could she say something so insensitive? When she had first met Dernhelm, she couldn't seem to take her eyes off of him and now she acts hateful toward him. What could possibly have transpired between them in one month that could have caused her to say such a thing?

Even as he paused for a few seconds to ponder, Neurik, the ancient dwarf priest of Tyr stepped into the room, his face ashen and his shoulders stooped. Lord Nasher, even fuming mad as he was, could sense that something was wrong, another sad tiding to round out the day.

"What is it?" Lord Nasher asked as softly as he was able, but it came out more as barked command.

Neurik looked up at him startled as if he was surprised to find himself in Nasher's room unbidden, lost in his own private thoughts.

"Aribeth will live," Neurik replied in a voice barely above a whisper. And then his voice cracked. "But the child has died."

The sudden, pain-filled intake of breath was echoed by all of them, even Tarlin, whose stern set jaw of moments before was replaced by something approaching pity.

"I didn't really accept his story completely when he told us about the Fall of Netheril," Elminster said as he sat with Nasher on the western balcony of Castle Never overlooking Halueth Bay.

"It's hard to believe that the version of events you have known for so long – and were even a part of – isn't quite accurate." Biting on his pipe stem, he blew a series of smoke rings as watched a galleon unloading supplies on the north end of the docks, a Waterdhavian ship bringing supplies as a prelude to the promised reinforcements. It rolled ever so slightly in the calm water of the bay, the flag bearing the crescent moon over sparkling water stirring in the gentle yet brisk breeze. It was almost too cold to be out on the balcony as it was only the middle of Tarsakh, but the sky was clear and the puffy clouds made the morning feel pleasant.

The events of two days before acted to spoil the mood and Nasher sat there brooding, largely oblivious to the natural beauty, idiosyncratically stroking his mustache. Elminster had appeared unbidden that morning, having received word of the bleak news, and had come to offer his sympathies. Dernhelm was still closeted away with Aribeth, comforting her injuries as best he could. As far as Nasher knew, Dernhelm had not yet told Aribeth about the child and had forbidden anyone else to do so, for fear that the news may compromise her otherwise frail state.

Nasher could feel a sense of disquiet among the general populace as if they suffered with Dernhelm and Aribeth. It had become apparent over the last few years that this truly was _their_ city and not Nasher's, no matter how he may choose to deny it. Somehow the people identified with and felt most akin to the half-elf from half a world away and his once-disturbed elven bride. In addition, the absence of their council was sorely felt in planning meetings for city defense. Sharwyn did an excellent job controlling the spy network and Sedos Sebile was a competent commander, but somehow they both seemed irreplaceable. Nasher ground his teeth in frustration.

"Have you found anything yet about where this 'Enemy' may be located and how we can stop him?" Nasher asked suddenly, in a voice to biting and obviously filled with worry for his tastes. He needed back the stone he felt during Desther's trial when he was sorely tested to his limits, when… Shaking his head, he needed to get his mind focused on constructive matters, and though the answer undoubtedly did not involve him, he felt better for the asking.

Elminster pulled the pipe out of his mouth and sighed.

"I can only find one mention of the Jangdwynyd in all the extensive literature at my disposal. He may have been an elf from the ancient realm of Aryvandaar, which collapsed more than ten thousand years ago. You will remember that it was in their lands that the Nether Scrolls were found."

"An elf? Dernhelm didn't provide me a mental picture that sounded like any elf I have met, or would like to."

"The Aryvandaar elves used to banish their kin to the other Planes for various crimes, and it could be that he is mentioned in this regard. I am unsure. If so, who knows the effects of ten millennia of confinement in the Plane of Shadow."

Nasher whistled through his teeth. "Still, that's a long time to be having to deal with it now."

"I agree, but it is what it is." Elminster replied, and put his pipe back in his mouth, puffing several more rings.

"Does knowing that help us in any way?"

"Not that I can see," Elminster said around his pipe. "But I believe there is a way we could stop this creature if we could just find out where it is.

"The creature is passing through a door made of magic, a door once controlled by this… Reaper. If we could somehow terminate magic in that area, the doorway would cease to function and the creature presumably would remain trapped in the Plane of Shadow."

"Not that I am an expert," Nasher stated calmly. "But can you just turn off magic like blowing out a candle?"

"Normally, no. But there exists a device in the elven realm of Evereska that just may be suitable for the task. I found it in my readings as well. In truth, I have _only_ read about as that is one place even I am forbidden to go."

Nasher's eyes widened in disbelief – as arguably the most powerful man in all of Faerûn it was impossible to believe anywhere was considered "off limits."

"It is true. Even the elves of Evermeet welcome me, but the Evereskans are an untrusting lot, especially considering the fiasco a decade ago with the Netherese."

"If it can help us, how can we appropriate it for our use if they are so reclusive?"

"Their realm is closed to me, but I believe they would open their doors to Dernhelm."

Nasher didn't bother to ask Elminster why this was so, as he would undoubtedly get another cryptic response.

"As to where this creature may be located - 'The land through that door will not rise again until the ancient blight is destroyed.' – I am at a loss. I can think of no less than twenty-three places which fit this rather vague description, and who knows whether the way I interpret it is the way the metaphor was intended. Information gets lost in translation."

"Great." Nasher drummed the tabletop as he thought about all they needed to do.

"I do have one question for you, though" Elminster said, setting his pipe down on the table and fixing Nasher with a critical eye. "How has Tarlin Misonere been acting?"

For a moment, Nasher was surprised, disbelieving that someone such as Elminster would know more about her than the simple introduction several weeks previous as they waited for Dernhelm to awaken from his coma. It was true they were all Harpers, but to pay her special attention… Thinking about the situation for more than a few seconds caused him to become livid.

"That damn girl is as changeable as quicksilver and is mean to the core!" And he proceeded to enlighten Elminster as to her actions surrounding Dernhelm and throughout her stay in Neverwinter.

As he talked, Elminster glanced down at the table, his eyebrows drooping as if sad. Eventually he sighed, and looked out over the bay.

"I had hoped there would be more progress in her," he said after a while. "She came to me several years ago from the dales. Her unflagging dedication to the Harpers caused her to be entrusted with ever more important tasks, and when her name eventually was brought to my attention, I took her under my wing. She was always severe, though never cruel, and rarely smiled. The things that did seem to make her happy usually involved the infliction of pain on others – those that deserved it, truly – but this happiness bordered on sadism. I tried to break her of that, tried to get her to laugh, to enjoy nature, to live.

"When she completes an assignment, she does not evince pride as you would expect, doesn't even show joy for the people she has helped. She considers it simply as passing another test to show her mettle and resiliency. Always she is striving to be the best, to be without failings, as if she has some goal in mind that to all appearances is unreachable. Her life has been hard – I do not know the full story nor is it my place to relate what I do know to you – but she needs to learn how to live again.

"I sensed that Neverwinter and Dernhelm, specifically, would soon undergo a time of testing-"

Nasher's eyes had been wandered with his mind, but he looked at the wizard suddenly. "Had Elminster known that something bad was going to occur?"

Seemingly sensing Nasher's train of thought, Elminster put in, "I couldn't honestly tell you why or what it was that I sensed, but I figured she would be an asset to you. She is _good_ at what she does. …And I figured, of all people, Dernhelm would be the one to teach her about life and help her overcome her demons. He seems to have an effect on people, in case you haven't noticed."

So lost in thought was Nasher – and angry – that he completely missed Elminster's joke. It was the longest speech Nasher had ever heard Elminster utter, which added weight to its message. The wizard was right. If anyone could change the miserably unhappy and inflexible, it was the half-elf. He sighed.

He found himself reevaluating the girl: though he still didn't care for her, he at least understood her better, though he couldn't accept her behavior. Maybe… maybe, he could try to be more accommodating, as long as she didn't say anything as heartless as what she had the night previous. As he sat there thinking about what he had just heard, Elminster gasped beside him, one hand going to his head.

"Gods, the pain," Elminster cried, his left hand clawing at the table, knocking his pipe flying. Rocking on his feet he slapped the tabletop again, his face contorted in a rictus of pain.

Nasher could do nothing but sit there watching in horror. For a few more moments, Elminster all but flopped around as if with a seizure and then just as suddenly he went limp like a rag doll, slumping back in his chair. His face was stark white, a look of terror etched across his wizened features. Sweat covered his brow. His breathing was punctuated and ragged, as if he had just run a long distance. Finally it started to return to normal, Elminster relaxing and shaking himself to regain control.

"What… happened?" Nasher asked, in a voice filled with dismay.

"I am not sure!" he said, still panting. "It felt like my mind was about to explode, followed by my chest! I haven't felt something like that since…" and then Elminster when ashen a second time, not from pain but from a startling realization.

"Since when?" Nasher prodded, becoming truly scared.

"Not since the Fall of Netheril, when, if Dernhelm is right, this Jangdwynyd touched the world and tried to control it."

The silence between extended outward as they both realized the import of this development.

"His power grows." Nasher said quietly, hesitantly, as if pronouncing it would make it occur quicker.

"And _we haven't got much time_." Elminster added, emphasizing every word.

An emergency session of the Neverwinter Nine met early the following morning in the throne room of Castle Never, with Lord Nasher presiding, and though Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun and Elminster were present, Dernhelm was conspicuously absent. The chair of the Knight General was occupied by Elminster, his red and gold cloak wrapped tightly about him as if warding off a chill, his pipe between his lips, unlit. Dernhelm's seat was occupied by Khelben who looked equally grim. In fact, not a cheery face could be found in the room from Daelan Red Tiger leaning in his customary place along the wall to Lord Bornhald, whose cocky bravado of a month ago had been replaced with something akin to worry. The wrinkles around his eyes were as tight as the wash after a good starching.

Elminster had related to them his revelations from the previous day – Khelben had suffered a similar attack at the same time – drawing concerned stares from the Nine, and Nasher had brought them up to speed on the latest reports. While they had primarily a ceremonial position as the sworn bodyguards of Lord Nasher, their extensive holdings in Neverwinter and beyond gave them substantial clout with the public and he depended on them to help the city run smoothly. In a crisis, they had often given of their own personal estates to the coffers of common defense.

In all, they had less than six days remaining until the force was at their gates. And Dernhelm was still closeted away in the Temple of Tyr with his incapacitated wife.

Lord Nasher, garbed again in his armor, paced around the table.

"So this brings us to the thing we have most tried to ignore thinking about," he said, smoothing his mustache. Walking to a small window, he looked out over Justice Square, a few citizens crossing it far below on their way to some sundry task. He sighed.

"We have to formulate a plan for how to stop this 'Enemy.'" In all the times he had used the word as of late, for some reason he could not get used to it. The word gave an air of insubstantiality to their foe, not the flesh-and-blood feeling of a solid, hated, personal name – and Jangdwynyd was just too damn hard to pronounce.

"I think we all now realize that the battle at our gates is only one part of a larger war," he said, turning from the window and leaning back against the wall. "We need to send someone to the elves of Evereska to obtain this artifact of which Elminster has related to us."

About the long table of meeting sat numerous other tables of every size, shape, and material, covered with maps and scrolls innumerable. At the behest of Elminster, Lord Nasher had moved all operations from his battle room to the throne room and had sent for maps of the entire region from Neverwinter to Shadowdale. It had taken long in to the evening yesterday for his servants to find all the maps that were required. It was to one of these tables, a hexagonal counter made of blueleaf from Ardeep Forest, that Nasher walked, picking up a map that prominently showed the region around Evereska. So secretive were the elves of Evereska that even after ten thousand years the boundaries of their domain were delimited by a dashed line amid the crispness of the newly illuminated map. Even the Siege of Evereska fifteen years previous in which many fought and died had done little to increase the general knowledge of the realm.

He suspected magic kept everyone's minds dim about the details.

Elminster rose to join him, idly thumbing through the remaining maps on the table.

"I don't mean to sound stupid," Lord Bornhald started. "But that is a trek of over eight hundred miles, and the orcs will be on us in six days."

Nasher eyed him over the map.

"I imagine that the resolution of our imminent struggle be long over before the successful conclusion of this greater matter."

"That's as well be," Lord Handlebach chimed excitedly. "But that is a journey of practically two months. If the Enemy is this powerful already, I don't want to see the level of damage he could cause in that length of time."

Elminster coughed, apparently unintentionally, and all eyes turned his way. Taking hold of the fortuitous moment of silence, he took out his pipe and started to speak.

"I can transport up five people – me included – as far as Dragonspear Castle," he said holding up the map and tapping the location with the bit of his pipe. "That would shave close to five hundred miles off their journey – granted they would still have a respectable three hundred and fifty miles or so left to travel – and _that_ would take a little over two and a half weeks."

Everyone looked suitably impressed except for Lord Handlebach, whose face was screwed up in consternation. Elminster's eyebrows rose but he merely waited for the inevitable question.

"If you can transport them that far, why couldn't you just take them right outside the elves' doorstep?" he asked at last as if to say he believed Elminster's powers to be limitless.

"Because magic doesn't work that way," Elminster said, putting down the map. Practically taking on a lecturing tone, he waved his pipe about as he explained. "I can go zipping about because for one, it is just one person, and two, I am confident in where I will end up. Transporting any more needs a safe location on the receiving end. The priests that built the shrine of Tempus in the castle erected a transport circle to aid in the safe passage of adventurers – you do remember it's a hotbed for egos and greedy wallets, yes?

"It is the only safe haven close enough to the elves without running into too many questions in the civilized lands or having to pass through dangerous wilds like the Anauroch or the Forest of Wyrms. And, unless my math is wrong, it's the shortest distance they can travel with the farthest distance between them and the Zhentarim. Any questions?"

Lord Handlebach looked suitably chastised, his cheeks becoming decidedly rosy. He raised his hands in defense. Sometimes Elminster had a very short temper.

After a moment, Lord Orhan, who practically never spoke, opened his mouth, and Elminster turned a raised eyebrow on him. A man of nearly forty, with a round face and nearly bald pate, Lord Tigius Orhan considered everything dispassionately and methodically. As such, not to be deterred, in a low, calm voice, he raised the question that was on everyone's mind.

"Even if we can get to Evereska, since no one is ever allowed in, the important question is how will we acquire this artifact?" He left unspoken that Elminster had named the absent Dernhelm for this task.

Elminster's eyebrows lowered and he bit the end of his pipe. Nasher put down the map and leaned on the table with both hands, his mouth a thin line behind his mustache. Khelben started to say something but at that moment the door to throne room opened.

It was Dernhelm.

His face was whiter than usual and his hair more visibly grey than his sixty-two years should allow and his shoulders slumped a bit. His eyes, however, were the same: alight with the fires of determination and a barely controlled anger. And the set of his jaw was as one who could chew rocks. No one said anything as he walked over to the head of the table and Elminster's vacant seat. Placing his hands on the back of the chair he regarded each one of them in turn.

"I am sorry for my absence. I know a lot is at stake and time is against us."

Nasher's moved as if were about to offer his sympathies, but Dernhelm stopped him with an upraised hand. "There is nothing I can do for her that Neurik has not already done. Not for her or the…" He left the statement unfinished but his voice didn't quaver nor did his eyes well with tears as everyone expected. Tarlin half rose out of her chair, her face blatantly apologetic, approaching mortification, but she stopped, sat back down and stared intently into her cup. Everyone seemed at a simple loss as to what to say.

"Please inform me as to what I missed."

Tarlin stumped down the hallway and pushed open the door to Dernhelm's room without as much as a knock. An overstuffed pack hung from her right shoulder, provisions for the long journey ahead of them, and it barely made it through the door. Her golden helmet was upon her head and she was outfitted in plate and mail. Gone was the simple rectangular shield she had used previously, replaced with the sword sigil of Tempus – it was because she liked the design more so than for religious acceptance – on a shield oval at the bottom and cunningly crafted as if with flames along the top edge. It was a gift from Marrok and Durga. On her left hip hung her sword and on her right was attached a small crossbow, a bolt with a wide head like a fowler's blunt slid along her thigh behind it.

Dernhelm was standing beside the bed he shared with Aribeth, holding a small circular broach in one hand, the other poised as if to touch it. So engrossed was he, that it took him a minute to even notice Tarlin was there, and then he merely stared at her without speaking.

He was dressed in a simple suit of brown leather with studding around the shoulders, and a hard, black leather breastplate. On the floor behind him was a traveling pack, not overlarge, sitting atop his greatsword. The ring of jade was gone from his finger.

"Are you almost ready to go?" She said irritably. "Where is all your stuff? Elminster wants to leave within the hour."

Her tone had the sound of a parent trying to round up an unruly child for mass, but the effect was lost on Dernhelm.

"This is everything," he said calmly.

At that, she raised her eyebrows. His eyes, however, fell again to the broach.

Keenly aware that he was an efficient packer, she still had never seen his baggage so spare – he always had the odd magical item near to hand. She stood there for a moment, expecting him to elaborate, but silence filled the space between them.

When he finally opened his mouth, he merely said "I'll be out in a minute," in a soft voice, apparently lost in thought. Again she waited for more, but when nothing came, she realized that it was a dismissal. And naturally, that irked her.

Sullenly, she turned to go.

But several steps with her heavy pack were all she managed before his voice stopped her.

"It was my fault, you know… at least indirectly."

Again the soft, distracted voice.

"What?"

"It was my fault that Aribeth was injured."

"How so?" she asked turning to regard him. His eyes were still focused on the broach in his hands, lost in memories.

"I started thinking about the attack on Aribeth. In the Plane of Shadow the Enemy was attuned to me, to my use of Netherese magic, finding me like a bloodhound."

"Okay, I know that, but…"

"After the first attack in Neverwinter, I assumed it had happened because somehow the creature could find out where I was living… it being common knowledge. But the second attack didn't make sense. It targeted Aribeth, not me. I figured maybe it was trying to get at me through her, but it has never seen her. It doesn't know what she looks like and it can't have such fine control over its minions to conduct an extensive search or we'd be through."

So preoccupied did his speech seem to be that all she could do was stand in puzzlement as her brain tried to digest his words.

He scratched his scraggily beard absentmindedly.

"But then I started thinking back over the last month. The Varax and minotaur seemed to know where we were and we wrote it off as sheer happenstance. Then the ogre mage was waiting for us. Why?"

"Coincidence?" she said, sounding unsure.

"No. If the Enemy was controlling him, Ugluk may have been able to sense that Netherese residue even here on this Plane."

"So what are you saying? He can sense you wherever you go?"

Again he scratched his beard as if thinking about an answer. She hadn't known him for long, but this was unlike him. She tried to puzzle it out.

"No, I don't think that is it at all," he said in a slightly more firm, surer tone. "The evidence…"

As he trailed off, she stepped into the silence.

"You think you will compromise the mission if you come?"

Staring at her now, the broach clenched in his right hand, he pursed his lips as if annoyed.

"The key is Aribeth, I think," he said, looking grim. He tapped the thumb on the hand holding the broach against his bottom lip. "She's the one piece that makes me suspect what the enemy is doing."

She looked at him with a chaotic mixture of disdain and surprise. He couldn't be suggesting what she was hearing.

"I know she was injured and that is horrible. But what? Because of _that_, are you talking about giving _up_?"

His once dream-like eyes with their hint of annoyance took on a hard edge above a mouth described by a thin line.

"What I _am_ saying is that it must be able to track me by my gear; otherwise it would not have attacked Aribeth. She was wearing _this_." And he thrust out the broach, clutched angrily in his fist.

"What is that?" She asked guardedly.

"It is just a magical trinket Aribeth gave me in the time of the Wailing Death and I have kept it as sort of a good luck charm – not that I believe in that."

"So you are saying it can track you from that? Then get rid of it."

"I am _saying_ it can track me by _all_ the gear I had with me in the Plane of Shadow, all of the stuff I carried with me when I used that astral door. They must have sucked up the taint, this included. She must have used it and it found her. It would explain how we were found out in the pass and by the ogre-mage for I used it both times."

"But that only argues for the broach," Tarlin remarked.

"True," he said, his tone softening. "But the night that we were attacked in our house, I could not rest easily given the coming war and Aniril's death, so… I played my lute..."

As he finished he saw her once questioning expression switch to almost humorous, so he quickly added: "It magically induces sleep." This failed to pacify her growing look of amusement. "I found it on my journey to Undrentide and it came with me to the Plane of Shadow. It survived remarkably well, considering, and I have always liked its tune."

For a moment Tarlin stared at him, enjoying the fact that she had embarrassed him, or rather he had embarrassed himself. But then she decided to ask one question to satisfy her curiosity.

"So you can't use any of the stuff? Where is it?" She cast about the room looking for it.

"I gave it to Marrok and had him melt it down."

"You WHAT?!" Her face turned white with complete astonishment. "Even the ring of Valeron? Th-th-the ring with the healing powers?"

He was not in the least bit happy with it by his expression that went from embarrassed to sad.

"All of it. If he could track me by it, even by something so small as this, I couldn't even lock it up somewhere for fear that it would act like a beacon calling him toward Neverwinter. Everyone here would be in danger…"

He sighed and suddenly looked old.

"Who knows? Maybe the reason why the army came here is because he knew where I was, where I was spending my time."

Marshalling herself against the shock, she looked down at his pack. She needed to grasp this. The loss of the ring was too incredible to contemplate. "What about Enserric? Isn't he 'tainted?'"

"I acquired him – and the cloak made of worg skins – after my… tenure in the Shadow Plane. They should be free of any taint."

"How good for me," came a muffled voice from beneath Dernhelm's pack. "And I was so hoping for my new life as a candle holder."

Only Tarlin gave him any mind, looking down at him with shock, plainly evident yet fading slightly.

"Before you even ask, I'll give this" he held up the broach "to Marrok just before we leave." He sighed as with concession.

Mentally, Tarlin listed off all that she had seen him employ, gone now to scrap, his magical accoutrement reduced to two. Dernhelm stood staring at her, and it almost seemed like he was thinking the same, but the look on his face said that he was the worse for having felt personal attachment.

Tarlin stood there thinking and Dernhelm went back to studying the broach, a reminder of his past soon to be lost forever. Suddenly, shattering his revelry, the human laughed, a hearty chuckle that set Dernhelm into a rage.

"What… is so… bloody… funny?" he growled.

"The fact that you have to go on an adventure without all your appurtenances. Now Faerûn can see how 'great' Dernhelm really is."

Dernhelm's hand whipped up, tossing the broach right past Tarlin's face with incredible force. It struck the wall with a clang. Startled, she dropped her pack and stepped backward.

"What the hell is your problem?" Dernhelm shouted. "My wife is injured, I lost my child, I have to give up a bloody house full of memories and you have to go and make jokes at my expense! What the hell is your problem?" he said again. "Haven't you got one shred of decency?"

"I'm sorry," she said simply.

"That is not good enough, _girl_." He put all the condescending emphasis into that word.

Her brow drew down in anger.

"Ever since you got here you have been callous to me and all my friends. You can't laugh except at horrible things and you look repulsed at my sadness. If I couldn't use your sword – you are one of the few people this city can spare – I would kick you out so hard that you would make a trail of flame on the stone street!"

"Finished?" she shouted back at him, her body shaking with rage.

"Not even close. You are going to tell me what the hell is going on here or you're through."

"Fine! Other people want my help! I don't need this!" She turned as if to leave but his next words stopped her.

"Yes you do whether you like it or not. I knew you weren't just 'passing through.' Elminster sent you to me! He wouldn't choose you specifically unless he figured I could be of benefit to you as well. I know you can handle a sword but you _certainly_ can't handle your emotions!"

As if in proof, at the mention that she might have been sent here to get help, she veritably exploded.

"You are full of yourself! The great Dernhelm thinks he can fix anything."

"So what is it you can't fix?"

"What?"

"What is so damn hard for you to deal with that you take it out on everyone else?"

"You wouldn't understand!" She shouted. And then her shoulders slumped a little at the fact she had voiced it allowed, indicated that he had hit on something.

"Why wouldn't I understand? Am I too _young_? Am I not learned in the ways of the world oh Great One? Have you lost more, suffered more, or been tortured more? Have you lost more than _one sixth_ of your life to a hellish exile?! I think I have _some_ clue."

With each word, the fire seemed to drain out of her, and for all her thirty seven years of maturity she looked strangely, sadly lost.


	9. Chapter VIII: A Strange Device

**Chapter VIII: A Strange Device**

"How many does that make today?" the old priest asked as two of his acolytes came in bearing a mailed body. Laying the limp form on a pallet, the older of the two looked up at him.

"Six, counting the dwarf."

"Who knew that the drow would have taken the second hall so quickly?" the younger asked rhetorically.

A heavily muscled barbarian strode by on his appointed rounds, his eyes constantly searching for danger as he fingered his warhammer. The old priest could see the barbarian was itching for the next group of adventurers to arrive so he could go to attain glory in the catacombs below, his duty fulfilled.

The arrival chamber lay down the passage to his right, the sigil of Tempus shining in the flickering torchlight. He wondered if the chime would sound again today. The way the drow were suddenly advancing, they needed fresh warriors to keep them in check. The last group had been impressive if not overlarge, eight in all.

He prayed strength and health to Tempus for the remaining two, an Archmage of Thay and a Cormyrian knight – a strange combination. The barbarian had come not more than two hours ago, but by the rules he was forced to wait. All arrivals seeking to enter the dungeon must serve guard duty until they were replaced.

The old priest wasn't concerned that the drow would make it to the ground level and threaten the shrine. Fourteen warrior-priests of Tempus stood between them and the surface world, more than enough to stop anything short of an invasion. He fingered his morning star and smiled. Even at his age, part of him _did_ hope that the drow reached this level.

His two acolytes placed the adventurer's gear on a nearby table in neat rows, ready for sale, as two more came to take the stripped body for burial. The old kitchen storehouses in the outbuildings behind the castle had been converted to a sort of mausoleum, erected in honor of Tempus. Its spacious interior was more than three-quarters full.

"We may need to seriously consider constructing a second one," he mused.

A gong sounded clear and loud, echoed down the corridors. Raising an eyebrow the old priest leaned in his chair to get a look at the newcomers; the barbarian was suddenly at his side, a look of eagerness as he daydreamed of fame and conquest. An ancient man in a bright red and gold cloak and huge black boots puffed contentedly at a pipe, his face more deeply lined than even that of the more than six-decade-old priest. Beside him stood a huge half-orc, a middle-age human female, a dreadlocked half-elf – decidedly unkempt – and a shapely female elf clad in… leather.

"What a motley crew," he said aloud before he could stop himself. The five companions either didn't hear or pretended not to. However, the big half-orc grinned as he saw the sigil of Tempus on the floor beneath his feet. The old priest could see that he bore the sign of the Red Tiger tribe of the Uthgardt, faithful worshippers of the god of battle.

And then the priest's mind stopped short as his hand clenched around his morning star. A drow! Her appearance was so out of the ordinary – and remarkably attractive, he was forced to admit – that for a moment it hadn't registered. All dark elves he had ever encountered had come from below the castle to wage war on the surface, not _through_ the portal to fight in the dungeons beneath. He blinked. At his side, the barbarian must have been equally put off because he could only now sense the tall human's muscles tighten.

Quickly trying to make sense of the situation, he put out a hand to stop the barbarian as he considered the group again. The barbarian stiffened, but didn't move. The priest commanded the northman's respect, though he realized it not, and this was the only thing that stopped the situation from degenerating… for the moment.

None of them moved threateningly – they merely stood on the seal, taking in their surroundings – as the priest would have expected if the drow and her companions meant him harm. And his brain couldn't quite believe a dark elf would partner with such a diverse racial crowd.

But it was the old man and not the drow that acted to allay his fears. He seemed somehow familiar. The priest scrunched his eyes in thought.

"So here we are," Elminster said as he stepped off the raised platform and moved into the larger room. He cast about him at the sparse furnishing; the room was filled with three tables, a handful of chairs, some torches flickering in wall mounts, and a mountain of weapons placed neatly over ever available surface except the chair in which the old priest was sitting.

"Fitting furnishings for priests of Tempus," he said aloud.

His concentration jolted at the compliment, the priest smiled warmly if awkwardly.

"You'll have to wait to enter the catacombs," the old priest began, the words of welcome spilling automatically from his mouth as his brain continued to examine the small cohort. "By the rules of our shrine, this barbarian here has right of entry."

At the priest's pronouncement, the barbarian similarly put aside his thoughts, focusing instead on the half-orc. The barbarian grinned and thumped his chest, giving Daelan a wide smile. It was a gesture symbolizing personal pride as well as amity: he was from clan of the Sky Ponies, ritual friends with the Uthgardt Red Tigers. Daelan inclined his head, giving the young man a smile in return.

"Alas, we do not plan on entering the catacombs," Elminster replied gravely. "Our danger lies down another road."

The barbarian was crestfallen, giving a wide-eyed look to the equally startled priest. The old priest could do nothing but stare; this was the first time anyone had used the portal for a reason other than for glory. And he could see that the five adventurers were very well outfitted.

"Then- then why… how did you come here?" was all the priest could think to say.

"As guardian of Shadowdale and Chosen of Mystra, I have my abilities, and we needed use of this portal," Elminster said with a jovial smile.

After a moment, the priest's eyes widened as his memory clicked and he stood and bowed low. "Elminster! By all means you are welcome here. I am sorry I did not recognize you." Two of his acolytes came in at that moment, and overhearing their leader, they stood with looks of awe at the living legend before them. The barbarian, not recognizing the name, but seeing how this old wizard commanded respect, calmed slightly, though his eyes suggested he was still distraught.

"That is alright my young friend," Elminster said, clapping the priest on the back. "There are too many faces in the world to remember them all."

"Surely you could stay awhile?" the priest asked hopefully. "They could certainly use you down there. The drow-"

At this, Nathyrra's ears perked up but he headed the priest off with a wave of his hand.

"Nay, would that I could. It has been too long since I have indulged a desire for adventuring and we have other pressing places to be. Another time perhaps." He winked.

Elminster turned on his heel with a parting smile and motioned the others to follow him. Again the priest bowed as if he had offended him. Nathyrra hesitated, wanting to stay and ask about news regarding her former people, but after a moment, she set her jaw and turned away, following the old wizard.

Just as they were about to leave, Elminster looked back and called over his shoulder. "I think just this once you should make an exception."

Forgotten through the short interchange was the barbarian, disconsolate at the thought he would have to wait for another adventuring band. As he saw the quintet about to leave, his hands clenched unconsciously around his warhammer.

The priest nodded and clapped the young man on his muscled back. "Prepare yourself to enter the catacombs, my good man. Tempus give you strength…"

"A bored barbarian is a deadly barbarian," Elminster chuckled to himself.

"We'll head straight east across the narrowest part of the High Moors, cross the Serpent's Tail Stream just south of the Serpent Hills, then work our way up to Evereska skirting the Marsh of Chelimber to the south. Our only main geographical problem is finding a ford across the Winding Water." Dernhelm looked at them to see if there were any suggestions, his hands tracing the route on the rough parchment.

"And our main sociological problem is probably going to be orcs," Nathyrra remarked. Only Daelan smirked.

"Three hundred and sixty miles should take us about two to three weeks depending on terrain," Dernhelm added.

They had traveled east for half a day from Dragonspear Castle and were encamped in the foothills on the western side of the High Moor. Before them stood a mist-filled land of tumbled boulders and gullies reaching more than a hundred miles at its narrowest. It was a vast, forgotten land, ruled by highland sheep and rock ponies, scattered orc bands and goblins. Once part of the elven nation of Miyeritar, it now was only frequented by farmers hoping to obtain "free" livestock, and the occasional adventurer seeking his fortune in the ruined castles of old.

Elminster had left them shortly after they had set up camp. While he would be invaluable in a fight, they needed him more to decrypt the riddle of their final destination. They had little time to go haring off across the world in the hopes that they would accidentally cross the Enemy's path. Winking one last time in his disarming way, he disappeared, leaving behind a purple smoke ring.

"I don't understand how he can convincingly produce warm smiles in the face of impending adversity, especially for himself," Dernhelm thought as he sat staring at the space the old wizard had just vacated. A student of long life and adversity, Dernhelm was both a veteran optimist as well as an experienced masker of his emotions, but to truly be perpetually _cheerful_ was beyond him. He could subsume his emotions out of need but he certainly could not so easily lock them away or ignore them. "Maybe it comes with age," he mused, mirthlessly. "It'll probably take millennia."

Settling in they passed their first night in the wilderness with four two-hour watches, Dernhelm taking the last. This area was only vaguely familiar to him and completely foreign to the others; none of them were about to take chances.

Passing the night unharmed, Dernhelm again set a fast but reasonable pace, treading carefully but steadily to the east. He did not fear danger following them – from Neverwinter, at least; they were headed direct enough toward it for any taste. Understandably, his normal affable attitude was replaced with grimness, his whole being focused on putting one foot in front of the other to see this crisis through. His mind constantly traveled to be with Aribeth, but like a runner with a singular goal in mind, he forced himself to consider and be alert to their present path. His heart still ached for the baby he would never see, a pain he feared would never truly be eased. Behind him, he could feel Tarlin carrying her own secret pain. They had not spoken since their conversation over a day ago – leaving her shaken and embarrassed at her tears – and he was content to let matters lie until she was ready. For her to have such a skewed view on life and relationships, he could only imagine what pain she must have endured. He sensed though that something had changed between them, or at least was starting to change within her, and he hoped it was for the good.

"_Maybe I found the chink in her façade,"_ he thought.

The mist swirled about them as they walked, partially obscuring the ground in front of them, the jagged boulders and rotting bogs appearing sometimes suddenly in their path. Traveling only when light, their pace covered twenty miles or more each day. On the day of the third march, at noon, the sun cleared away enough of the mist to reveal the fallen spire of a tower off to their right. An archway leading into the remnant of a colonnade stretched away into the distance beside it, its sheer size suggesting the grandeur of the elven palace that used to stand here. The stone had the appearance of black-veined marble cunningly shaped into a tangle of growing flowers, twining brightly toward the sky drawing awe that even eons of neglect could not erase. Dernhelm called a halt and walked over to it, a welcome respite after the hard push since breakfast.

It was an excellent decision.

The marble felt cool to the touch and as his fingers brushed a large rose petal – crafted to look as if it were blowing in a gentle breeze – he could almost see the palace restored to its native beauty, see the bustle and liveliness that this place once enjoyed. Such were the ways of the elves and their deep magic, that more than twelve thousand years after the elves were gone, this place actually acted to refresh him.

In truth it made him no less upset, but took away some of the weariness that disquiet introduces.

The others felt it too. Daelan squared his shoulders and stood looking proudly down the long line of columns as if walking as a hero in parade prepared for the bestowment of a medal. Nathyrra, normally sedentary in the sunlight, stepped over to inspect the tower, half-buried in a large bog, her curiosity buoyed by the ethereal comfort of her surroundings. Even Tarlin seemed less on edge, less angry, and her back was not as slumped as she stood under the arch looking off to the east.

Leaning against a pillar, Dernhelm took some hard flatbread out of his pack and began to chew it almost contentedly. Two more days should see them clear of the High Moor, and ten more beyond that would see them at Evereska.

He considered it as he ate. Evereska, the most ancient home of the elves in all of Faerûn. The nation stretched back ten thousand years if the histories could be believed, and was rivaled on all of Toril only by the elven nation of Evermeet. While part of him trusted Elminster that the elves would admit him, the truth was he knew nothing of these people and they had no cause to accept him. He was of the Deepingdale elves, a child of a wood elf and a human, born to be a custodian of the forests. Once, a great compact stood between the wood elves of the dale and the Elven Court in Cormanthor, a treaty of acceptance and partnership, a community built in fairness on the backs of humans, elves, and half-elves alike. But then came the Retreat, when the elves felt themselves growing world-weary of their lives in Faerûn, constantly beset by the drow below and the "mortals" above. Many went across the sea to Evermeet or lingered long in Evereska, content to live separately, lords untouched and "unsullied" by the world –in it, but no longer part of it. And he knew that the lords of Evereska, the Hill Elders, were the most disagreeable of them all, ethnocentric to a fault. He had been taught that when he was young, one of the few facts that anyone truly knew about the hidden nation.

He could see Nathyrra rounding the far side of the tower, her cloak pulled far over her face to shield it from the weakening effects of the high sun. The surface was a harsh place for the subterranean drow.

"If the Evereskan elves will be mistrustful of me, I can only wait to see their reaction at one of their dark-skinned cousins, even one who is a follower of Eilistraee." He shook his head thoughtfully.

Right where a portion of the tower's top had collapsed, a jagged hole marring the otherwise pristine beauty of the structure, Nathyrra bent to the ground, her cloak enfolding something hidden from view. Dernhelm's curiosity piqued, he moved over to her even as she straightened. The others, similarly interested, joined them.

In her hands was a rectangular block of what looked like wood – although its like Dernhelm had never seen, reflecting the sun with a golden and silver glow variegated with a brown-black grain – covered with runes carved with straight edges. The runes ran in a pattern around the edge of the top and covered the other sides, leaving only a small raised portion in the center comparatively banal and bland. The raised portion was a gilded five-pointed star the size of a man's hand, inset in a pentagon that gave the sense that it could be depressed into the wooden box. When he said as much to his friends, the response was instantaneous.

Either from the calming effects of the elven ruins or simply because he was insane, Enserric shouted from the scabbard on his back, muffled yet sadly clear enough. "Push it! You know you want to! Tempting, tempting! I need to see what it does!"

Caught off guard for a moment, they soon erupted into laughter, even Tarlin, though her expression did not fully evidence amusement. The place had done much to push his cares away, as dark as they still sat in the corners of his mind, and he found himself feeling strangely at peace.

"Shut up," Dernhelm said half-heartedly, watching as Nathyrra turned the box over in her hands.

"Come on. It burns your sense of curiosity! You must want to know! You have to push it!"

"You'll have to learn to live with disappointment."

"Oh, come on!" Enserric persisted.

"Quiet, or I _will_ turn you into a candle holder." Dernhelm said.

Though this did nothing to quiet Enserric, who continued to goad them, they focused on ignoring him.

"So what do you make of it?" Dernhelm asked.

"_Push it!"_

"I can feel nothing from it, no sense that it is magical at least, just a sense of incredible age." Nathyrra said from the depth of her cowl. "But I would be hard-pressed to believe it was anything else, lying here for ages and looking like it was lost only yesterday."

"_Push it and you'll find out!"_

"And the writing?" Tarlin inquired. Her voice was calm, yet distracted. "Is it elvish?"

"_It's from the land of 'Push It!'"_

"It could be, but these lands stretch so far into the mists of time, it doesn't resemble any elvish runes I have seen."

"It seems vaguely familiar to me," Dernhelm said, lost in thought. "Almost like a faint memory…"

But the thought was lost as Enserric shouted out "It will jog your memory if you… PUSH IT!"

"SHUT UP!" Daelan bellowed, completely annoyed.

For some reason this quieted Enserric who contented himself to merely chant "push it, push it, push it."

Though they all thought it, they made sure not to say the one thing that was completely obvious upon finding a possibly ancient artifact in the midst of millennia-old elven ruins: they were _not_ going to push it until they knew more.

"Since we are going to Evereska, the elves should _surely_ be able to give us some insight on this," Tarlin volunteered.

"I agree," Nathyrra said. Then she added in a skeptical voice, "Assuming they let us in."

A wicked smile played across Dernhelm's face as he thought of the elves, secluded by their own power and looking down on the other races. The others saw it quickly and their eyebrows rose in question at the devious plan cooking in the half-elf's brain.

"If this is a relic of Miyeritar, then _this_ could be the bargaining chip we need to gain admittance. I bet their hands would itch to get a hold of it." His friends nodded in agreement. Their fortuitous discovery of this ancient relic seemed like a direct intervention by Ao.

Nathyrra put it in her pack and the group readied to leave.

"Come on! At least let _me_ do it." Enserric whined.

The rest of the trip was surprisingly quiet and in two and a half days, around twilight, they had reached the end of the High Moor. The lights of a small village beckoned ahead of them, tempting them with the thought of a warm meal and a flagon of ale.

The ground to their left was broken up in a cluster of short, jagged peaks, the Serpent Hills stretching eighty miles before the High Moor wrapped around their northern edge. To the south of them, they could hear the Serpent's Tail Stream falling westward as it raced over a cascade on its way to join the Winding Water.

"We need to be careful," Dernhelm said as he eyed the lights. "We may be able to obtain horses here, which would greatly shorten our journey, but the villagers may be distrustful of outsiders, living so close to the Moor and the Serpent Hills."

"I think you and I should go in alone," Tarlin said, pointing at Dernhelm. Daelan's eyes narrowed, but Dernhelm nodded.

"If they are nervous living here, the sight of a drow and a half-orc may be all they need to turn ugly," she finished. Nathyrra, who had pushed back her hood now that the sun had fallen, nodded resignedly, and set about making a camp. Daelan looked up at the town, but after a moment, bent to help her.

"Don't worry," Dernhelm said with an attempt at a disarming chuckle. "I will be sure to bring back beer."

The innkeeper scrubbed at the small bar with a rag, more out of habit than because it was dirty. He thought for the thousandth time that coming to Sheep Run had been a mistake, the diminutive flow of business barely keeping him above the level of a subsistence farmer. Only during the 'livestock season,' which was over with the coming of winter, did he see any good business, and most of the money he earned then was spent just keeping him supplied from Soubar. He had come here with his wife one season to try their hand at obtaining "free" livestock, and though he had proved a miserable failure in this regard, he had been captivated by the raw and dangerous nature of the land. He had felt compelled to stay. Times like these though, taxed his inborn sense of adventure, especially because they concomitantly made his wife grouchy.

The three tables that made up the small common room were empty save for Leo Sebellius, face-down drunk like he was every night. He sighed and then turned to pour himself a flagon full of ale.

"_If you can't beat them, join them,"_ he thought as he took a swig from the foamy mug.

When he turned back to the bar, two travelers stood in the doorway. Startled, he nearly dropped his precious beer.

"Sorry to frighten you," said the male, a tall half-elf with a mop of maroon dreadlocks atop a blocky, patchy-bearded face. He was dressed in unadorned leather armor with the hilt of a greatsword poking above his back. The female at his side was human, wrapped in a cloak that bespoke of armor beneath, from the way it hung uneven and lined. The hilt of a sword poked out from the front, exposing a leg wrapped in chain mail over leather. Not the strangest pair he had ever seen, but certainly the strangest to ever grace his inn in Sheep Run. The half-elf's expression was one of calm as was his lady friend's, an almost-smile as he surveyed the small establishment.

"Nice night for traveling," he said guardedly, setting down his ale and caressing the spiked cudgel he kept under the bar. Not that it would do much against these two, he surmised, but the rough wooden handle gave him some measure of courage. He wasn't a suspicious character by nature, but living this close to the wilds had tempered him with a bit more caution that he had known growing up in the city. Especially during the off season when he rarely got three patrons in a night and all from the village, those hangers-on that tried their luck throughout the winter.

"There will be no need for that, I assure you," the half-elf said with a smile, looking straight at the bar where he kept his weapon. Jerking his hand back as if bitten, the innkeeper smoothed it on his mostly clean apron. Casually, the half-elf strode up to the bar and took a seat. The female took off her cloak, exposing a suit of plate-and-mail, a longsword strapped to her right hip.

"Uh, what can I be doing for you?" the innkeeper said, still not dropping his guard.

"Ale, please," the half-elf said, flipping up a coin. And then he added with another smile, a disarming grin that split his face from ear to ear, "In a clean glass."

"And a strong one for me," the female said, folding the cloak on the chair beside her. "And mine can be dirty. It builds character." The half-elf looked at her out of the corner of his eye, shocked, and then he laughed, a hearty laugh as of one shaking off the wearies of the road.

And the tense mood was broken.

"So where do you hail from?" the innkeeper asked at last, a foaming pint sitting before each of them.

"Neverwinter," the half-elf replied, reclining on his barstool, a faint line of beer foam on his upper lip. He appeared contented as he sat staring at the wall behind the innkeeper.

"Ah, the Jewel of the North. Fine city, that is. And it's a long way to be traveling. Nigh on six hundred miles, I'd guess."

"But for all that a pleasant one, considering," came the reply.

After the initial joke, the human female had lapsed into silence, intently focused on the beverage, but at this she looked at her friend and her eyes got strangely sad.

"And how is that old rapscallion Nasher Alagondar? Hard to believe he would settle down to a life of leadership," the innkeeper quipped.

"Still well," the half-elf said. "Though his city is beset by orcs, last we heard."

"Orcs, you say? Like in the Horde Wars?"

When the elf merely shrugged, the innkeeper felt emboldened to continue.

"I can remember not twenty years ago when some upstart elf led a war band against that city. She was a vicious one, I hear, but Neverwinter is a tough nut to crack."

The half-elf tensed as he spoke, but then buried his face in his beer. After a moment, he came up looking relaxed. The innkeeper, sensing her had erred in some way, wanted to make an apology, but he figured it would be best to let the matter drop.

"Where are you headed?" he said, changing the conversation.

"Deepingdale," the half-elf replied. "I was born there and have some business there to take care of."

"That's a long journey through many dangerous wilds for but two people," the bartender said, his eyes wide.

"True. But our luck has held so far with six days behind us in the Moor and not an orc to be seen."

The bartender took a long swig of his beer.

"So, you'll be wantin' rooms for the night?" the innkeeper queried.

"Our camp outside will suffice," replied the half-elf, to the dismay of the bartender as he watched potential money walking away. "But horses such as you have would greatly speed our travels."

And the bartender's hopes were renewed in a flash.

"You mayn't know," the bartender said with an internal smile. "But horses are precious in Sheep Run – more so than elsewhere – as we sell all we find in the Moor. And at this time of year we have but few left and they are sorely parted with."

"And we have the money to pay," the female replied, pulling a bag about two fists wide from the folds of her cloak.


	10. Chapter IX: Drums of War

**Chapter IX: Drums of War**

Lord Nasher strode the battlements and surveyed the field. It had been five days since Dernhelm and the others had left for Evereska and all had not gone according to plan. Deekin's kobolds had arrived, thirty-one in number, a ragtag band of miniscule reptilians that spent most of their time fighting amongst themselves despite all of Deekin's cajoling. They each wore a metal skull cap and held short spears used for throwing, but he wondered if they even knew how to use them. Lord Nasher was obliged to permit them entrance because they had come to Neverwinter's aid, but it soon became apparent that they had a huge propensity for destruction. Deekin took them to the Trade of Blades for their first night and they quite nearly burnt it to the ground. He was forced to relegate them to the aqueducts for their stay in the city; as a race of prolific miners they were used to subterranean dwellings and thankfully considered the spacious underbelly of Neverwinter lavish accommodations, despite the water and waste. Nasher could not understand what Dernhelm had been thinking!

Behind him, he could hear his engineers feverishly working on their trebuchet, erecting them in empty spaces throughout the city core, which had been cleared of all non-essential traffic. He didn't bother to turn around. He had seen the impressive collection of large marble blocks that morning, laying nearby in neatly stacked piles, quarried ages ago from the Sword Mountains and meant for a new addition to the Academy, now repurposed for war. The trebuchet, his engineers assured him, would be ready in two days at the earliest, smiling as if this should cheer him.

And of course thinking of Aribeth did little to improve his mood. Even with the best ministrations she still lay gravely wounded, and though Neurik assured him that she would recover, he could not help be troubled. He had elevated Sedos Sebile to acting Knight General – she was competent – but every time he saw her walk the battlements, it seemed somehow out of place and wrong.

The only bright spot had come yesterday, when, true to his word and working faster than Nasher would have thought possible, Khelben Arunsun had sent three ships of troops, fully six hundred in all, raising the complement of the city to a respectable five and a half thousand. Khelben had sent word that three more ships were on their way, with more being prepared.

His own reinforcements, which had been sent to Luskan, had only half returned, the second ship still two days journey north. The Northern Drift brought warm water up from Waterdeep to Luskan – the main reason he was quickly able to aid that city – but this hampered southerly travel along the coast.

As he traversed the parapets above the gates, he glanced at his bodyguard. Two of the Nine stood nearby, girded in the full plate they had adopted as their standard, the bear of a man, Lord Rhangabe, with his massive battle axe held loosely over one shoulder, next to the diminutive Lord Gennereth, a short sword on either hip. Out of the five that would remain with him during the coming battle, he had selected them this day as they were the most reserved, affording him the solitude he so coveted in the time left him.

The four others of the Neverwinter Nine were leading the defenses of the district walls. Though those sections were likely to be less contended – the enemy would concentrate its energy on the main gates to the city core – they were of no less importance, and Lord Nasher installed his most competent lords as their protectors. The methodical Lord Orhan had command of the Beggar's Nest, while his equally deliberate counterpart, Lord Wingold, held authority over the Docks, two hundred soldiers in each garrison.

The wealthy aristocracy of the Blacklake District had Lord Bornhald as its protector. Lord Nasher had specifically appointed him to that district for the shrewd, cocksure lord would ever make the aristocracy remember the agent of their deliverance, twisting the short leashes to which the nobles would be bound to the benefit of the city. As much as Nasher thought it should give him a pang of guilt at his cunning, he couldn't help seeing it as a godsend.

"An unavoidable crisis leads to a fortuitous benefit," Nasher had said smiling as he discussed his plan with the lord.

The garrison in the Blacklake District was of exactly equal size to those in the Docks and Nest – Nasher was not about to draw accusations of class favoritism in the midst of this crisis – made up of exactly the same complement of archers and swordsman. It had been his most tedious but most necessary task to remove any possible ammunition from the soon-to-be-beleaguered city.

Leaving nothing to chance, Lord Nasher had even outfitted the Peninsula district with a minor garrison overseen by the affable Lord Hadrian – who stepped into the role without complaint – to protect against the unlikely event that the enemy would try for a sea assault. But not all planning was easy. An expert tactician, Nasher still had difficulty in determining how to use his troops to best effect, defending over thirteen thousand feet of wall all while keeping a reserve and a force in the field.

Sedos Sebile had command of the forces along the gate wall. Technically, as acting Knight General, she had command over the entire army, but Nasher withheld full control because of her lack of experience with a force that size. He knew it was a slight to her capacity to command, but he would rather wound her in that way than threaten the city. The bulk of his forces were controlled by Lord Daniril Angevin, a grizzled veteran of the Horde Wars and the only other noble in the city to have war experience. Currently, he was stationed in a small field tent surrounded by thirty-five hundred soldiers outside the gates of Neverwinter.

And Lord Austrion…

The lone rider charging across the field from the north gave him pause, scattering his thoughts: it was one of their outriders tasked with watching enemy movements. Eyes locking on the posting form, he watched the rider for a long moment as it drew closer, moving through their pickets and heading straight for Lord Angevin's tent.

And then his gaze was inexorably drawn to the way the rider had come.

The sun was at his back giving him a commanding view of the field, nearly two miles along the north road before it passed over a small rise. But nothing was there, not a speck on the horizon.

An unsettling feeling filled his stomach.

Had the orcs arrived already?

The rider dismounted quickly, but Lord Angevin was already outside, having been warned by his pickets, his grizzled face staring grimly beneath a nearly bald pate, a few wisps of hair blowing in the light breeze. The rider spoke animatedly, but not loud enough to be heard from the wall, and pointed off to the north. To Lord Nasher, his gestures suggested something too close for comfort.

And then the faint sound of chanting could be heard on the wind.

His eyes snapped back to the empty horizon even as a messenger raced from Lord Angevin's tent toward the city gates.

Where was the enemy? To hear singing from that distance they had to be close… or very big.

After a moment he saw them, a line of large marching shapes just at the edge of vision, too far away to be identified but definitely heading for the city. Runners raced out from Lord Angevin's tent, sent to the field captains to direct them in regard to the soldiers they surely saw coming toward them.

But strangely, as Nasher watched for deployments to tell him the nature of their foe before the messenger reached him, they did not form up lines.

It was a good omen. He didn't even need the message-boy who had now reached the stairs up to the parapets to tell him that.

And then, as they closed the distance to the city, the chanting gained in volume until he could make out the words. It was a battle call to Tempus sung by several hundred human voices.

Daelan's Uthgardt Red Tigers had come, as he had hoped they would, over five hundred miles of hard ground solely for the chance to fight the orcs.

For the first time in a while, he relaxed.

The night passed in relative quiet, Lord Nasher getting some of the soundest sleep he had in over a month. Four hundred Uthgardt barbarians – easily worth at least twice that in his trained men, he was forced to admit – had come to swell his ranks, and the army stood at over six thousand. Whatever the enemy threw at them, they were at the best strength they could hope for, considering.

When he woke the next morning and ate his breakfast in the castle, he felt refreshed and ready for the coming fight. And he knew it would be this day that the first blows would be struck between man and orc, for he could sense the world stirring, feel a change in the air. It was exhilarating and unnerving as battles always were; even knowing that men would die – men he knew – did little to change the dichotomy of emotions. Saying a quick prayer to Tyr for his friends' safety somewhere in the wilds to the east, he had his squire gird him in armor, and strode purposefully from the castle to the battlements, five of the Nine at his back.

Making a circuit along the wall, he encountered his commanders, greeting each lord – and his acting Knight General – in turn. Part of him wanted to see his real subordinate, but as she still lay in the infirmary, he felt that meeting her may distract him for the day.

And then he took his place along the parapets atop the main gate.

The field before him was empty of the enemy, but it could not have felt fuller, for the Uthgardt barbarians were singing a marshal chant to their patron Uthgar, the Battle Father. The sound broke the stillness of the morning in truth but it still felt right and fitting, and acted to raise his spirits even further. Around them, their energy seemed to wear off on his soldiers, for some of them tried to join in, but thankfully, they were drowned out by the more experienced northmen who were too occupied to teach them.

And through many variations they continued as the day wore on.

By about midday they had still seen no sign of their enemy, but the overwhelming activity of the outriders presaged their coming. The news they brought was of a large host – big enough that an accurate accounting was irrelevant – still hidden under the eaves of the Neverwinter Wood a mile to the east. It was an organized host: the army around Luskan had joined forces with Dernhelm's coterie of besiegers and were marshalling as one in the forest.

"Ah, my kingdom for a good, old, stupid orc," he said to himself as he stood there waiting. But then he squashed the thought.

"My kingdom for an army of good, old, _dead_ orcs," he corrected.

As if sensing his thoughts, a voice, deep and resonating, came to his ear from the right, causing him to turn.

"Waiting is the hardest part of battle, is it not, my Lord Nasher?"

Jent Austrion, Lord of Helm's Hold, stood against a crenellation to his right, staring at the elder lord from behind the barred faceguard of his helmet. His plate and mail was burnished though it had clearly seen use in combat, and the eyes of Helm stood out smartly on the backs of his studded, steel gauntlets. Absently, he fingered the hilt of his hand-and-a-half sword hanging in a scabbard at his left hip.

Practically never appearing in public without being girded as if for war, the middle-aged lord was like a rock of confidence and Nasher had taken to him instantly. He had ruled over the rebuilt and garrisoned hold of Helm for nearly fifteen years, encouraging its repopulation after Desther had despoiled it. Under his stern guidance, though small, the outpost had ascended to a prominence never before known in its history and it served as a sure stopover in the craggy lands of the southern Charwood for trade bound for Waterdeep.

And because of his skill, Lord Austrion would command the defense of the city core and their reserve units.

Lord Nasher nodded at his comrade. "It is indeed."

An hour later, the sun having past the zenith moving on its downward journey into night, just long enough that the defenders started getting anxious at the delay of the impending battle, a drum sounded from the Wood, a resounding boom that echoed off the walls.

It was loud enough that it momentarily drowned out the Uthgardt, their attention drawn to the Wood. But the cessation of their marshal joy was short-lived. Not to be intimidated – barbarians never were – as the sound faded away, they took up their song again, even bolder now that the enemy had come. On the wall, however, a hush pervaded as all eyes were locked on the trees.

As the peal faded into silence, the drum sounded again. This time however, it was joined by a host of other drums, beginning a steady rhythm: _doom_,_ doom_,_ doom_. It was truly a marshal beat, one customarily and therefore eerily human, indicative of a disciplined march. And with that the orcs broke from the cover of the trees.

A line nearly a quarter-mile wide, marching to the beat of the drums, moved toward Neverwinter. As the orcs moved forward, more lines stepped into view, one after another, forming into a wall nearly sixty deep. The orcs were wielding weapons of every sort, wicked-looking sickle-swords to huge awl-pikes, and their armor was equally motley. Scattered amidst them were smaller goblin-kin and huge ogres, ten-foot tall brutes wielding medium-sized tree trunks like clubs.

But the thing that drew every eye on the walls was the siege equipment.

Six giant wheeled vehicles rumbled amidst the orcs pushed and pulled by a small host of ogres. They stood thirty feet tall with peaked roofs covered in animal skins, and thick, wooden walls that looked as if they had been soaked in water. A flat section sat just below the roof, like the floor of an attic, and doors in the crown could be opened for archers to fire while screened from overhead attacks. Below this was a humongous tree trunk suspended on large metal chains. They were cunningly engineered – too cunning for the simple, fell humanoids.

And then they noticed the scaling ladders.

Expectedly, in his almost-whine that so grated on everyone's nerves, Lord Handlebach asked, "How did the orcs get so _smart_?"

Lord Nasher rolled his eyes, but his face was grim. "_Obviously_ the ogre mage wasn't truly the one in control of this army," came his reply.

"And we find ourselves facing a more cunning enemy than we had expected," Austrion stated, surveying the field below. The size of the host was at _least _the ten thousand that Dernhelm's scouts had estimated. Unperturbed, he added "Let us see if he takes the field."

Across the open fields they came as a wall, advancing in neat columns, their feet marching in step to the drums. The siege weapons stayed at the rear of the force, surrounded by a guard of huge orcs and several ogres, waiting for the army to reach the city. It was so neatly ordered and therefore so alien. It was the strangest thing any of the defenders had ever seen from a host of orcs and some looked at each other uneasily.

"Will the order hold, do you think?" Eltoora Sarptyl asked, coming to stand beside Lord Nasher on the wall. Her Many-Starred cloak blew smartly in the light breeze, the sunlight reflecting off of the tiny sequins sewn in to the fabric. Her angled face and pronounced cheekbones gave her the look of a bird of prey as she surveyed the field, and her hair, done up in the simple yet elegant pinned twist atop her head, added to illusion of danger at the sheer casualness with which she conducted herself.

Nasher stroked his mustache a long moment before answering. "If it does, then be ready. There will undoubtedly come a crucial moment when we need you."

She nodded simply.

The edge of the Wood stood less than a mile from the intercepting army. When the orcs had reached the halfway point, they divided into three brigades of roughly even size, with pikemen to the front interspersed between orcs wielding axes and swords. To the center of each group were a sizeable number of archers wielding short bows.

Lord Angevin, a veteran experienced in wars both human and orcish, was unperturbed. Snapping his men to attention, he called out orders in rapid succession, creating a shield wall in a line in front of the gates with his pikemen and a number of dismounted men-at-arms. The rest of the cavalry he placed on the right flank toward the back, the Uthgardt barbarians at the left. The archers stood out in front of the infantry, each bearing a small armful of stakes sharpened at both ends, which they began to hammer into the ground, angled outward at their attackers. It was a simple defense, easily moveable if the enemy changed tactics, but it would act as a bottleneck as the orcs would be forced to evade, and give the archers time to fire.

Suddenly the tempo of the drums increased and the orcs began to move in double time, their feet shaking the ground. The archers finished their work, the shield wall separating just long enough to allow the archers to retreat to the rear. The distance closed to two thousand feet, then to fifteen hundred. Finally, from over ten thousand throats, a scream went down the line, a guttural, animalistic sound that only orcs can make, and they began to charge, an ordered stampede of pig-faced humanoids.

When the orcs reached three hundred feet from the stakes, Lord Angevin raised his hand and the archers of Neverwinter let their longbows sing, a flight of nearly fifteen hundred arrows. Many of the orcs fell only to be trampled by their comrades, but the charge came on without the slightest falter, the orcs driven and unflinching. Again the arrows flew and again, fully three waves of arrows before the orcs struck the stakes. If they were slowed, it was barely perceptible, and it was only due to the bodies that had fallen in their way. The press of the orcs forced the stakes and the impaled aside, the screams of the dying drowned out by accumulated rage of the battle-ready orcs, nearly thrice the number of defenders.

"One good thing is that they still are single-minded like orcs in thrall," Austrion shouted.

And yet, no commander could be seen on the battlefield.

With a crash, the two armies came together, the larger intending to crush the smaller by sheer weight in numbers. The orcs lashed out with their swords and a hail of arrows fell among the defenders; several score were slain. A portion of the brigade on the left, nearly five hundred strong with several large ogres at their center, made to wheel around the shield wall and come at their flank, but the barbarians were ready. Highly disciplined, they braced their ever-ready three-pointed "tiger claws" and drove into the enemy with incredible force.

But the enemy was not so easily routed.

Completely outclassed in skill, the enemy made it up in sheer ferocity, meeting the barbarians head on, devolving that section of the battlefield into pandemonium. Similarly, the right flank soon became a target and Lord Angevin committed his cavalry in a series of charges that threw the orcs into confusion. But the main press still was focused on the center.

Though an incredibly effective field fortification, the sheer numbers of orcs slowly ate away at the shield wall. Each time gaps formed in the line, Lord Angevin reformed it, shortening the shield wall and making it more into a half circle. The barbarians on the left flank soon gained the upper hand, driving the orcs backward. The pigmen turned and ran in complete disorder. Maintaining discipline, the barbarians followed their enemy for a short distance, driving in a wedge in the midst of the fleeing orcs.

Seeing the barbarians get all but surrounded by their opponents, disordered as they were, Nasher made ready to send a signal to Angevin to warn them of their danger. He had seen this arrangement too many times to take it lightly, especially given the order the orcs had evidenced earlier.

"If these truly are a competent enemy, or a tightly controlled one, I might fear this to be a feigned retreat," said Lord Nasher. Lord Austrion, coming to stand next to him, shook his head in agreement.

But their fears quickly proved unfounded. Some of the fleeing orcs got tangled with those advancing in the center, causing part of it to fall apart, and the barbarians capitalized on their confusion, their daggers stabbing. Bodies fell thickly about the Uthgardt Red Tiger's.

And the shield wall held.

The orcs could gain no ground, pressed against the determined defenders, and their bodies began to pile up against the wall. Though decidedly outnumbered, the training of the humans was superior even to the enforced discipline of the enthralled orcs.

But then it came, whizzing over their heads, a shadow that nearly froze Lord Nasher's blood.

Shrieks piercing through the din of battle, a Varax streaked out of the sky, cutting a long line in the shield wall with bolts of electricity. Men began to smoke even in their armor and many of the lightly clad archers simply burst into flame. So close together were the defenders that the small fires quickly spread, sparks and embers threatening to turn the shield wall into a conflagration. Moments later, a second swooped low over the battlefield, scattering horses in terror and throwing riders amidst their enemies, its long wings spread wide.

The orcs were unfazed by the presence of the Varax and capitalized on the confusion by slamming in to the fear-stricken defenders. The already weakened shield wall shuddered and a hole opened in the line, orcs pouring through. Several groups of archers, yet unscathed by the aerial assault, unleashed volleys of arrows right into their faces and then drew their swords in an effort to plug the breach, but Nasher knew it would not be enough. Panic loomed, an enemy far greater than a division of orcs.

Even on the wall, many of the militia cowered in fear behind the parapets but Sedos Sebile was quickly at their backs, yelling at them to restore order. Chaos reigned among the small group of lords surrounding Nasher and Eltoora as well, but from surprise aside from fear, the clamor of voices mimicking the battle below as they warred to be heard.

"Not Varax!" Lord Handlebach shouted – not from fear, assuredly – this new development simply not fitting in to his limited expectations about the battle.

"I thought Dernhelm had killed them all?" Lord Abril Devon said in disbelief, his voice nasally as it became when he was excited. Beneath his faceguard, his eyebrows were raised halfway to the widow's peak of his receding hairline, his round face betraying his surprise.

"Three left and I never thought to see them here!" Lord Aldebran Sethan said as if in reply though it overlapped with his senior comrade. As coolly confident as any of the Nine, his skill lay in the fact that he was the master of stating the obvious without actually annoying anyone.

Lords Rhangabe and Gennereth stood as composed and silent as always, only their eyes suggesting surprise and alarm, but Lord Nasher easily made up for them with a bellow of rage.

"Eltoora, you must stop them!" he shouted, his face nearly white.

"If I kill them, they will only explode, and that will just as easily tear apart the line!" she replied, even as she watched the creature turn for another deadly pass. Of all the tricks up their enemy's sleeve, she did not expect to see two Varax take the field against them. They were creatures out of legend, summoned from some alien plane by the Valsharess. Though she felt her magic sufficient to the task of dispatching them, the danger they posed even in death caused her firm confidence of earlier to shudder.

"If we do not, this will turn into a rout!" he retorted, but he knew she was right. The whole situation suddenly looked dire.

And then Lord Austrion grabbed his arm and pointed.

Off to the south, a rider came tearing across the field at breakneck speed, his mount lathered and nearly stumbling in its haste. So reckless was his ride that though he saw the intense battle before the gates, he charged ahead anyway as if intent on shouldering aside the combatants by sheer force of will. As he closed on the outskirts of the orc force he at last turned his horse, angling toward the walls, trying to reach the limited safety of a bowshot. The rider's cloak flowed out behind him, displaying the crescent moon over sparkling water, the sigil of Waterdeep.

Nasher's eyes widened. Any message that could be so important that a rider would risk certain death boded ill.

And then the rider's hood flapped back, exposing a round face with a bushy red beard.

Shock covered Nasher's face at the sudden recognition, and he grabbed Eltoora pointing at the rider.

"Him! Him! You must save him!" he roared. "A scout from Waterdeep!"

Startled at the sudden change of her lord's focus, Eltoora looked first at Nasher and then at the rider. She almost asked how a single man and his messages could be more important than two _Varax_. And then she too recognized him.

It was Demas.

Several orcs at the fringes of the battle moved to intercept him, but he flailed about him with his sword to keep them away and ran them down. And then one of the Varax broke off from harassing the line, which continued to weaken, and made straight for the rider. Moving into a shallow dive, it stretched out its long, razor-sharp talons to catch the rider and drag him from his horse. He ducked low and the talons passed harmlessly overhead, but his horse stumbled in fear, and he was thrown forward over it to land on his back.

For a moment he lay there unmoving, breathless. Capitalizing on the opportunity, the orcs moved to close in around him even as the Varax rose to turn, the glow of lightning building in its mouth.

"To the Temple!" Eltoora screamed and disappeared in a flash.

Struggling to his feet, Demas drew his sword but it was clear that he was too shaken to put up much of a fight. He barely parried the lead orc's axe, its companions not a dozen steps behind; the Varax started to dive, having completed its turn.

And then Eltoora appeared at Demas' side handing him a small white stone the size of a fist – the Stone of Recall – even as an arrow from the wall felled the orc before them. Drawing the second one from the folds of her cloak, the stones briefly flashed and they disappeared; orc arrows all but sailed through their afterimages. Overhead, the Varax, committed to the dive, realized their departure too late, and let loose its breath, igniting nearly a score of orcs.

But this was the least of its mistakes.

So close was it to the wall, so intent on its victim, that the Varax was separated by a goodly distance from the center of the fighting. Sedos jumped into action and a hail of arrows slammed into it from the battlements, driving it toward the ground. Spreading its wings, it tried to gain height, but several arrows tore through the delicate membrane and it foundered, crashing into the wall.

Any northerner would have known the result of slaying a Varax. Dernhelm had even reiterated it to them when he had discussed their adventure in the Crags. And therefore Sedos must have known. Nasher could only surmise that she had calculated its position as being the least damaging on the beleaguered defenders.

Which put it right in front of her.

"Get down!" Nasher screamed, but it was too late.

With a deafening roar, the Varax was torn into millions of pieces.

The concussion knocked most of the defenders on that section of the wall from their feet, some falling from the parapet into the inner courtyard. The top of the wall, just above where the Varax had exploded, leaned outward ominously and then gave way, several tons of rock and soldiers dropping onto the field below.

Sedos was no longer visible.

His eyes wide, for a moment even the battle-hardened Nasher was struck dumbfounded, but the sounds of the remaining Varax drew his attention back to the battlefield. The shield wall had shrunken to a distorted ellipse, with the center in a constant retreat, but it held somehow, Angevin corralling his terrified men with amazing precision. Even the flanks maintained a loose organization. But the farthest soldiers were nearly within a short bowshot from the walls and it became blatantly apparent that they were soon going to lose the field.

Grabbing Austrion by the shoulder, he said "Get the men into position for a sortie. We need to get everyone back inside."

For a brief moment Austrion stared at him through his faceguard in disbelief and then he leapt for the stairs down to the courtyard.

The lingering dust above the broken section of wall did more to indicate Sedos' fatal decision than the sight of any dismembered body could. Many of the guard therefore stared at the dissipating cloud in utter disbelief at the passing of their commander – the first serious loss in their minds. But their attention, however justified, distracted them from the battle and Nasher dispatched Lord Sethan to restore order along the wall.

He was surrounded by only four of the Nine therefore – Handlebach, Devon, Gennereth, and Rhangabe – when that same dust cloud drew the attention of the remaining Varax. Having completed a withering pass through the beleaguered shield wall, the line threatening to buckle at the formation of another hole, it turned to see the settling dust that bespoke the destruction of its unearthly comrade. An ear-piercing shriek escaped its open mouth, an emission of pain at the loss that struck the defenders dumbly, suggesting a higher level of consciousness than the magical, mindless killer they had all envisioned.

Such thoughts were quickly dismissed as it pulled back its wings and dove straight at the defenders on the wall, getting as close as possible to the top of the parapet. Surprised soldiers attempted to leap aside, but its long, razor claws caught them and knocked a goodly number from the walls; many more were consumed by its breath, igniting in their armor. Several soldiers moved to intercept it, their bravery viewed with surprise – and alarm from their compatriots at the thought of a successful blow eliciting an explosion – but the fury of the creature swatted them aside or burned them down as it completed its pass.

And then its eyes – if one could attach the term to eldritch red orbs – fixed on Lord Nasher as if perceiving him rightly to be the leader.

Lord Nasher and the Four drew their weapons even as it came at them, veterans of countless battles facing this nightmare all but unmoved. The Four were in front, the sworn protectors of their Lord to the end. This proved their undoing. Letting out another pent up breath, the Varax caught Lords Handlebach and Rhangabe directly, electricity sprouting from the chinks in their armor as they were consumed, falling to the ground in piles of ash and agony. Lord Rhangabe stood stalwart the longer of the two, his large axe held defiantly, prepared to swing in the opportunity that never came, the clanging of the axe head on the stones of the parapet telling evidence of his demise.

But now the creature was momentarily out of energy, with its momentum as its only weapon. It spread its arms wide as it made to pass through the falling motes of the two incremated Lords, bent on skewering Lord Nasher and his two royal guards. They could see its open mouth building for another electrical volley through the settling dust but it was evident that they would first meet under brute force.

And at that moment, Lord Gennereth struck.

The diminutive Lord had been the only one of the guard to move from his forward position in front of Nasher – to the very edge of the rear parapet – preparing himself for the creature's approach. Reclusive in speech, he was nevertheless crafty, and as the creature passed in front of him, he launched from the stones with all his weight behind him, sinking both of his short swords into the creature. The Varax was surprisingly light for one of such violence, yet tough and stringy, and only by the force of his weight did his swords penetrate the skin of leather and cartilage. Caught by surprise, the Varax had little time to react before Gennereth's momentum carried them both over the wall.

Lord Austrion sat his mount in front of the small group of soldiers – a cavalry troop and a company of militiamen – as the crossbars rose via pulleys to lie against the inner wall. It had taken mere moments to arrange the party, the under-lieutenants having prepared their subordinates for just such an event; yet when the time came for action, a feeling of trepidation stole over the assembled. With a heave, a dozen guards pulled on the two great doors, a platoon of archers arrayed at the center to cover their maneuvers.

Ever the sight of dread for the soldier, the doors opened onto a scene of barely controlled chaos, the archers at the rear of the shield wall firing directly over the heads of their allies. The center of the fortification bulged dramatically inward, the orcs less than forty feet from the gates, and the flanks were hidden from view. For many of the gathered men, this was their first sight of the slathering pigmen since the start of the battle. Blood and gore spraying from the front ranks of the defenders underscored the penalty for allowing the orcs to gain the city.

With the gates open, the archers – some completely exhausted of arrows and forced to scrounge from the dead – began to retreat first, flowing back between the assembled ranks of horsemen and infantry, all the while attempting to keep a steady barrage of arrows at the enemy. Then the shield wall started a measured retreat – a difficult tactic at best, especially considering its currently distorted shape. The flanks withdrew making the shield wall even tighter, slowly draining away at the number of people left on the field.

But the retracted gates had an unintended consequence. Seeing the doors open, the orcs attacked with renewed ferocity, trying to gain the city, pushing the ellipse backward, and all but separating the flanks who already suffered the difficulty of trying to gain the city through their thin connection with the center.

And then the right side of the line exploded, just out of sight.

It was an amazing concussion, twin to the one that had killed Sedos Sebile and a score of defenders not minutes earlier. Orcs, soldiers, and pieces of wall were blown into view, knocking down a swath on both sides. The deafening boom rolled into the courtyard, smothering the sounds of bodies being crushed by falling rocks. The shield wall crumbled. In mere seconds, the order that had been maintained for so long devolved into understandable bedlam. Huge holes opened in the line, only to be filled in seconds by swinging orcs, and soldiers began running through the gates in their haste to get away from the carnage, sometimes nearly trampling fallen comrades.

The cavalry that had once protected the right flank, now greatly reduced in number and scattered due to the explosion, tried to control their startled mounts and regroup, but they were forced off to the south, cut off from their beleaguered comrades. So many orcs had rushed to fill the gaps, standing between them and the safety of the city that the gates were effectively lost to them. With a rapid series of firm commands, Lord Angevin – who had somehow maintained his position atop his horse – managed to hold the left flank together by sheer force of his grizzled will; however, they too were cut off from the gates, pressed against the wall and surrounded by orcs.

At the same time, orcs began pouring into the city, even under withering fire from the wall, and by infantry and archers from street level. Austrion's assembled men, bolstered by the soldiers that had retreated under control, held their ground with an intensity, the thought of orcs entering and befouling the sanctity of their city driving them on. A soldier may show fear at facing an orc on the field of battle but fighting for hearth and home erases such thoughts with wild abandon. In the end, this proved successful. Several tense moments passed, but they managed to stop the orcs at the gates, creating an effective bottleneck, aided by some of the wall guard Lord Nasher had diverted to their aid.

And then Lord Austrion ordered a cavalry charge.

"For Helm and Neverwinter!" he shouted.

Spurring his horse and surrounded by a small guard of Helmites, they ground into the orcs before the gates, catching them off guard and driving them backward. His goal was to link up with Angevin's forces to provide them a way to gain the city; infantry and archers poured out to support him and many volleys sung overhead. But the advance was soon slowed. Even for an unenlightened orc, they could clearly see what Austrion was attempting, and the orcs moved in to stop them, their short bows trying to maintain the wedge even as they hacked at Austrion's infantry. Several Helmites fell, their horses pinioned, and the charge ground to a halt.

But the sight of comrades from the city reenergized the left flank. A group of barbarians, still singing to Tempus, fell upon the orcs, crushing all that stood in their way. Their Neverwintan comrades – who had lost their vocal enthusiasm since the start of the battle – again took up the cry, their inexperience with the words drowned out with the sheer energy of the song. It was out of a glorious love for battle that the barbarians sang; for the city soldiers, they saw their deliverance in Austrion's men and sang out both to encourage themselves and to offer their thanksgiving.

Under such opposition, the orcs were forced to retreat and in moments, the link between the two forces was formed. Angevin started pulling in the edges of the army, streaming behind the fresh troops. After several agonizing minutes, only Austrion's troops, the barbarians – reluctant to break off battle – and Angevin's guard were left on the field. Austrion signaled for the retreat and backed his cavalry unit, under cover from the infantry and the archers on the wall, into the city. It was a stunning piece of military maneuvering.

The orcs, however, were not willing to give up their prey that easily and again pressed the attack, heedless of their destruction by the barbarians. Several of their arrows hit home, however, and Lord Angevin tumbled from his horse, pierced by no fewer than three arrows. Instantly, his men were beside him, risking themselves to grab his body and drag it into the city.

Finally, Austrion gained the walls, the force was through, and the gates swung closed. The force which had started out at more than thirty-five hundred defenders had been diminished to less than two thousand, not counting the approximately two hundred cavalry that had regrouped in the Charwood. Fully four thousand orcs and ogres had fallen on the battlefield, but to many of the defenders it seemed like a flood still surrounded the city and all their efforts had been like peeing in the ocean to change its water level. As twilight began to fall, the battering rams moved ponderously forward.

"He will live," Neurik said for what felt like the thousandth time today, the wounded and the dying all around him. The red bearded man lay on his back on a small pallet, his right upper arm wrapped in linen where he had been struck by an arrow.

"Guess the disappearing act wasn't fast enough," grunted the man with a grin.

"Demas! _What_ are you doing here?" Lord Nasher asked, kneeling beside him. For the time being, the orcs were content to drag their siege equipment forward, retreating well beyond bowshot to prepare, and Nasher had used this opportunity to see to the man from Waterdeep.

"Trying to get a piece of all this sweet action. You almost got away with it," he said with mock seriousness.

"I have given him an unguent to heal the wound and ease the pain, but it can do nothing for his sarcasm," Neurik said gravely.

After a moment, with Neurik helping him to sit upright, Demas adopted a more staid tone.

"You have more trouble coming up the road," he said at last.

"Oh?" Nasher sighed heavily, expecting as much from the scout's frantic ride. "How many?" he asked resignedly.

"Remember the Cult of the Dragon?"

"Those fanatics consumed with making dracoliches and other undead horrors," Nasher asked, his skin growing pale as he caught the suggestion. "What of them?" he queried hesitantly.

"I was on my way up from Waterdeep – Khelben had one of his 'strange feelings' and he wanted me to do some overland scouting to help you out – and I ran across a band of them."

As Nasher opened his mouth to ask the dreaded question, Demas cut him off.

"About fifteen hundred in total, three hundred humans controlling the remainder in undead."

Nasher did a quick tally in his head. Beginning the day with a numerical disadvantage, they had closed the gap somewhat, and he had in hope believed their numbers sufficient to hold off a siege. With this news, he was not so sure.

"_Orcs, ogres, undead, Varax… What's next?"_ he thought. _"A dragon?"_ And then he mentally kicked himself. No need to wish worse than the hand already dealt to you.

"How does it look?" he asked. He needed to formulate a long-term plan as fast as possible. The rams would soon be in place; he gave the first assault fewer than three more hours – in the dark of night.

"Never before have there been so many cultists in one place, aside from maybe at the temple they call the 'Well of Dragons.'" Most of their cohort are skeletons, zombies, and the like, but they have some heavy-hitters in there: bone golems, ghasts, wights."

Nasher hung his head, his fists clenching.

"Damn this _Enemy_," he growled.

"And," Demas started and Nasher's head came up, his eyes all but glued to the scout's mouth. "They are bringing siege towers."

"Shee-it," he said, before he could stop himself. He must be tired to have voiced such a thing aloud.

Demas seemingly understood because he gave him a weak yet comforting smile.

"_Dernhelm,"_ Nasher said internally, the thought coming unbidden. _"I'll do everything in my power to protect your wife... and your city."_


	11. Chapter X: An Unexpected Reunion

**Chapter X: An Unexpected Reunion**

The innkeeper had been pained to part with his horses. They were of unexpectedly fine quality for such a frontier village and Dernhelm and Tarlin had to practically pay for their weight several times over in gold. It was a good thing that Lord Nasher had been liberal in their monetary supply.

Their diminished stock of cash was not mirrored in their spirits however. For four travelers with hundreds of miles yet to go, the reality of not needing to use their backs and feet was a godsend. They set out the next morning in high spirits.

That is, all except Dernhelm.

Though his body rode alongside his companions Dernhelm's thoughts kept traveling the long distance to Aribeth, flying faster than any horse could, wishing he might glimpse the happenings of his home. A twinge of disquiet had tickled his mind since the afternoon yesterday – their earliest estimate of when the battle between orcs and men would commence in Neverwinter – but he had awoken this morning to a foreboding sense of ill. It was like a hollow pit in the stomach that food could not fill, and a doubt in the mind that even reminding himself of his inability to help he could not ignore.

His companions sensed it as they road east but said nothing, only Nathyrra riding once up beside him to put her hand on his arm to evince their knowledge of his concern. They too knew the possible significance of this day and his mood served to remind them they were heading into but one part of many dangers. About midday, a distance of fifteen miles from Sheep Run, they reached the Serpent's Tail Stream just upriver from a small waterfall where the rocky bottom made a shallow ford.

It was then that Tarlin called a halt and surprisingly all obeyed.

They dismounted in silence, tying their mounts to scraggly trees that grew along the water's edge. Daelan set about making a small fire to warm some meat, figuring that the warmth would cheer their half-elven comrade, while Nathyrra and Tarlin sat on either side of him on the trunk of a fallen willow. For a while, no one spoke. The happy moods of the morning were dulled even for the two ladies; not only did they sense Dernhelm's disquiet, but they too began to think about what could be happening to the city in their absence.

Nathyrra had little affinity for the bastions of men, preferring a quasi-solitary life away from the prejudices of the surface world, spending time with her close friends exploring the earth under the weakening light. She had only returned to Neverwinter with Dernhelm out of their profound friendship and had every intention of moving on when she realized his residence there was permanent. And yet, for some reason she had stayed.

True, she truly knew no one else on the surface aside from Dernhelm, Aribeth, Daelan, and Deekin but a small circle of friends wasn't it either. It had been ages since she had thought about it – truthfully less than two years – but she found herself questioning it all again. For a while, she had held out hope that Dernhelm loved _her_, but it became evident that Dernhelm was a one-woman man – a golden-skinned woman. This she had finally accepted.

Even spurned – no, that was too harsh an adjective for Dernhelm never treated her so, never even implied his affections – she had stayed. Against all reason, she had found that she felt an affinity for these people of Neverwinter, stalwartly refusing to yield to the ravages of the frozen north. It reminded her of her own resistance to the allure of power and the dangers of the Underdark, holding true to her belief in the sanctity of life in the darkness.

Was that really the reason: a kinship with human surfacers? Part of her almost felt like it was her duty to see the people of that city protected.

And now all of that was threatened.

"_I was happy this morning!" _She thought suddenly. "_Damn Dernhelm and his forced empathy."_

On Dernhelm's left side, Tarlin was similarly chewing her thoughts.

She held no special love for the people of Neverwinter. True, as a self-styled champion of the downtrodden she felt a general sympathy for any city so beset – as one of the mighty looking at frailty in need of a martial savior – but she had spent barely a month fighting for the city, and that mostly in the Crags.

Of all, she felt more for the individuals.

Take Lord Nasher. A great leader whose fame was known throughout the north and one that all of Faerûn would be loathe to lose if this battle should go ill, she almost wished to be able to watch him in his element. She could almost picture his muscular form warring against the grey of his hair. Even the Nine were men of strength and honor – most of them – and they commanded spaces in her concern.

And so too, she felt sympathy for Aribeth. The elven paladin was so unlike her in every way but for a stubborn pride that eschewed an indomitable strength of spirit, and she wished that Aribeth would rise to see the city intact.

Her thoughts stopped suddenly.

"_Where has such affection come from?"_ her mind mulled angrily. _"Great men, yes, but only if their abilities saw them safe, but a woman lying abed?"_

She nearly slugged her leg to banish such weak thoughts when her eyes fell upon Dernhelm. His jaw was set as he stared into the fire that Daelan was tending in silence, one hand stroking his angular chin, and his eyes held a faraway look. They weren't sad, merely squinted as if in contemplation.

"_What is he thinking about?"_ she wondered. _"His wife, assuredly, but the city? The mission before him?"_

When they had first met, she had been struck with the hope that this man was at the pinnacle of power and skill, striding into the room filled with famous men like he owned the world. And so he had acted in the Crags, taking amazing risks and emerging victorious. She would have staked her life on her belief she could read his kind openly, thoughts of valor riding through his mind like a golden chariot. But he had surprised her, all but dashing those hopes as he revealed his internal weaknesses, demons that he allowed to plague his mind, distracting feelings of affection…

And now?

He was a complex man – much more so than the rightfully arrogant Nathyrra or the powerful yet simple warrior-spirit embodied in Daelan – and she should have been a blind fool to believe she could read him. And… to her great surprise, she realized he was amazingly resilient. It was like he could change through the greatest extremes of emotions, all but humiliating himself with public tears only to rise up with internal steel that took everyone aback.

And… against all belief, she found herself regarding him _in_ _spite of_ his weaknesses.

"_Did his words hurt me that much?"_

She had hated herself for doing so, but it had felt so necessary, so… cathartic that she could not stop herself. And yet her thoughts were not so calm and sure as they had been before that encounter.

"_What is happening to me?"_

But the answer came not then, because at that moment, Daelan came before them proffering warm meat on a sharpened stick, with a toothy grin intended to calm their thoughts and focus them on the joys of eating. Although their mood tried to squash even this pleasure, they took their food gratefully, even Dernhelm who smiled with seeming genuineness.

And then Daelan gave voice to the general fear in the most reassuring way possible.

"The Uthgardt have never missed a battle against orcs they have ever been invited to, even over five-hundred miles of dangerous terrain," the word 'dangerous' said as if an adjective added by rote, but completely superfluous when describing the fearsome barbarians.

"And," he went on. "Neverwinter has nothing to fear if _King_ Deekin and his kobolds are defending it."

They all laughed heartily at the thought of their tiny reptilian allies girded for war. True, they valued Deekin's friendship as much as anyone, but Dernhelm had called to them only to underscore to his other allies the gravity of the situation, hopefully spurring them on to greater ferocity at the thought the city may _require_ the kobolds.

The laughter did them all good and the mood of the moment was broken. Even Dernhelm sat straighter knowing that everything was as it should be, as it _could_ be.

Little could he know that the battle was already over.

In less than an hour, they had finished their repast, doused the fire, and were back to horse heading east. Pushing nearly thirty miles a day, they rode along the Winding Water, reaching the Marsh of Chelimber in five days, making this the eleventh day out from Neverwinter.

The Marsh of Chelimber was bleak and foul-smelling, a fen that stretched nearly eighty miles wide. At its southeastern end, it spilled over a rocky lip into a shallow valley, a noxious river that when mixed with the cleansing flow of the Serpent's Tail Stream gave rise to the Winding Water, flowing westward to the sea. Eying the rocky lip as a ford that they might cross, it became apparent that it was wholly unlike the crossing on the Serpent's Tail. Over half a mile wide, the rocks were heavily encrusted with a slippery moss, and the horses shied away from the stench before they were even one hundred feet from the edge, rolling their eyes and rearing.

When they finally got the horses corralled, withdrawing to a safe distance, they sat upon them for a long moment, considering their options. Crossing the marsh was completely out of the question. Deep pits were dotted throughout to suck down the unwary traveler, and they were nearly undetectable, covered by a seemingly substantial coating of moss and vegetation. And that was without considering the enclaves of sivs and lizardfolk that called the marsh home.

"So here we are at an impasse," Dernhelm said, scratching his stubble. Never able to grow a complete beard like his friend Demas – his was always patchy – he was notorious for letting it grow just long enough until he was forced to shave it by Aribeth. "Our goal lies less than eighty miles to the northeast but it may lie a thousand, for the horses will not cross, nor would I force them to. We could ride around the marsh to the north, adding six days to our travel and having to pass through the Forgotten Forest, or ride south along the river to search for a suitable crossing. What do you think?"

He let each of them weigh their alternatives in turn, but Nathyrra's face told him instantly she knew what _he_ was thinking.

"Oh, no!" she said adamantly. "We'll go search for another ford or we'll go around. I am not doing _that_."

Daelan and Tarlin looked at each of them in confusion, but Nathyrra quickly jumped in.

"He means to leave the horses and cross on foot. Cross a _marsh_ on _foot!_"

The half-elf was habitually single-minded, intently focused on the shortest path to achieve a goal, regardless of the effort required. Always to the dismay of his more observant friends, it didn't help that his wife was equally determined and unswerving. It was the source of their greatest triumphs and darkest failings.

Dernhelm smiled at her adamant response, but he looked at the others. "It is not what I would _truly_ want either," he eyed Nathyrra to see if she would argue that point but she merely sat her horse in a huff her arms folded beneath her breasts. "But it will only take us four days to Evereska if we ford it and then travel on foot. It will take nine if we ride north, and at minimum three if we go south, and possibly many more."

Tarlin's eyes drew down, but she sat there in silence, staring out at the ford, and then fixing her horse with a critical eye. She hadn't grown especially attached to the horse in the last few days, though by the sheer amount of money they had spent to acquire it she should have, but she had grown much attached to staying dry and wholesome-smelling.

"I vote to ford the river!" Enserric shouted from Dernhelm's back, his voice quivering with its normally barely-sane edge.

"Shut your mouth!" Nathyrra shot back. "Only warm-blooded, living creatures get a vote here."

"Well," Enserric said. "That would exclude you too, wouldn't it?"

For a moment everyone stopped and stared, Nathyrra looking at the point of rage, but it was too obvious that she had given Enserric all the ammunition he needed. They laughed. And for a moment forgot the choice.

Daelan was the first to wipe his eyes and look back out at the ford. "I say we take the shortest route, if the least pleasant smelling."

Nathyrra looked away, all laughter gone, again folding her arms under her breasts in anger. Looking at Tarlin, Dernhelm raised an eyebrow. Her vote either split the decision or made it stink.

"Let me ask one question," she said at last.

"Alright."

"Is there a _clean_ river or a hot spring or something that we could clean up at _before_ we reach Evereska?" she asked incredulously.

"Of course," Dernhelm said with a smile. Nathyrra turned to regard him with a look of shock. "In fact, I have bathed in it many times when I am up this way."

Tarlin didn't believe a word of it; they were approaching the one place to which none of them had ever ventured. Nodding her head as if adding this to the scales of her decision she said at last, "We ford the river."

Nathyrra shot Dernhelm a viperous look.

Dernhelm stroked each horse along the bridge of their nose as he removed their bit and bridle, talking to each horse softly in the subtle way that only a ranger can. When he had finished, he gave his horse a swat on the rear, and the four of them took off at a trot, angling back the way they had come. They watched them disappear into the distance, Dernhelm allowing his companions to steel themselves for the crossing. In the most likely of cases, the horses would travel back to their former master, for he seemed to care for them lovingly, and Dernhelm wondered to himself what the old bartender might think at the sudden return of four riderless animals. He presumed that with the return of these "cash cows," any worry for the "disappeared" would be soon forgotten.

Dernhelm chuckled to himself at the thought.

After a short rest, he got them moving, himself in the lead, stepping gingerly out on the first of many rocks they would have to traverse. Having suggested the idea, it was only fair that he be the first sacrifice, should one be required, and he pressed toward their goal with gusto. At least, he tried as hard to work himself up to enjoying it as he did convincing everyone of the intelligence of their choice.

The rocks under his feet were incredibly slippery, the moss twisting in the river's flow and he stuck his hands out to his sides to provide balance. Ever nimble on his feet and as fleet-footed as most of his full-elven kin, he still should have thought the matter through more thoroughly before running headlong into it – a second questionable habit – because he had not but made his third step when disaster struck. His foot slipped off the rock, and he realized instantly that all the arm-balancing in the world wouldn't be sufficient. With a futile effort to stay upright, he fell into the Winding Water, disappearing beneath the surface.

Tarlin leapt forward with a cry but it was unnecessary. Dernhelm had already gotten back to his feet in the shallow flow, the water coursing around him below the middle of his chest. When he turned to regard them, he looked wholly unhappy, a drenched rat to replace the brave hero of moments before. His dreadlocks lay matted against his head and moss and something like seaweed clung to his face and armor.

Nathyrra laughed at the sight as if to say "I told you so," made all funnier with the black look that Dernhelm gave her.

"Don't say a word," he growled.

Three sets of teeth bit lips even as the corners of their mouths turned upward. Climbing angrily up on the bank, Dernhelm flicked his hair, shaking off the malodorous rot. Some of it nearly caught Nathyrra, who jumped out of the way startled.

Cursing under his breath, Dernhelm went to a nearby tree, a scraggly cypress growing along the edge of the marsh, and proceeded to break off limbs taller than his body. Nodding in understanding, Daelan did likewise, fashioning walking sticks that would afford them balance against the slippery rocks.

In short order, Dernhelm was back in the river, trying a second time to make it across. And this time, whether it was his skill coupled with his newfound balance, or the sheer force of his will bolstered by his lightning temper, he had success. With a stick in each hand, he managed to stay upright on the first rock, though he swayed, and gingerly he stepped to the next. Daelan quickly moved to follow, his large form – and huge logs – balancing with difficulty on the rocks. With Tarlin soon joining the group, Nathyrra had no choice but to comply, though she did so with abundant grumbling and cursing.

Their going was understandably slow. Each movement needed to be made just so, searching the fetid flow for a solid nook to use for leverage, then shifting their weight to one arboreal appendage even as they lifted and placed the other. Several times they stumbled, a foot sinking up to a knee in the horrid water. Once, Tarlin got her boot stuck in a pit of muck so thick that the boot came off and she stumbled into the mud in her stocking before she could stop herself, sinking in to her shin. Hearing her cry, Daelan turned to help her and nearly lost his balance, but she cursed at him, and proceeded to yank at her boot in anger. When the boot finally came free, with a loud sucking sound, she almost fell back on her rear, the final straw that would have completed her misery. For even though she had regained her boot to protect her against the mire, she had no choice but to push her sludge-covered foot back into it, along with an amount of slime too ample for her liking. It entered with a squelch. Daelan offered a sympathetic look, but Tarlin merely scowled. Being miserable in a swamp is only made worse when other, drier people are around to see it, and pity offered at your misfortune is unbearable.

It took them two hours to traverse a distance of ground that would normally have taken them twelve minutes. In the end, Dernhelm planted his feet on solid ground, took two steps and collapsed, worn out by the sheer act of balancing. Daelan was short to join him. A minute later, Tarlin reached the bank with a look of utter misery, quickly tearing off her boot, and falling into a supine position.

Last to start, Nathyrra was also the final member of the distressed troop to reach the other side. She placed her pole just shy of the bank edge and stepped onto the second to last rock. Of all of them, she had had the hardest time, needing to keep her cloak close about to shield against the draining sun even as she balanced, and yet, surprisingly, only the bottom of it was splattered with grime. A triumphant smile spread across her face as she lifted her left pole, four feet between her and the end of a trial she would likely have sacrificed her soul to avoid.

The look on her face said "Suck it you evil half-elf. I beat your little challenge."

And then disaster struck.

The pole got tangled in the moss, startling her even as she tried to lift it, knocking her off balance. While the three of her companions watched with mixed looks of horror and comedy, she tried to compensate by leaning forward, but this only acted to change the direction of her fall, causing her to enter the river face first. Daelan, who was closest to the bank, was quick to his feet, and he bent to pull her from the water. Grabbing a handful of the back of her cloak, he drew her out kicking and sputtering, moss and water spilling from her pockets. Dernhelm had to bite his lip not to laugh.

They made came early that evening because the trip had been wearying and they were all in various stages of saturation. The tangled roots of a large willow made for a comfortable campsite and Dernhelm erected a fire that was soon burning cheerily, their wet clothes and boots stacked nearby to dry, the muck cleansed from them as best they could without clean water in which to wash. Tarlin reclined against the roots, her feet pointed toward the fire, but the ordeal had left her surly and silent. The men, though truly none the worse for wear, sat staring at the mire, allowing the heat of the fire to wipe away their weariness. Nathyrra, on the other hand, whom everyone had expected would be an unbearable companion, actually managed to laugh at the day's ordeal, poking fun at Dernhelm in ways that made all three of them blush. It had been an event too full of irony for even a drow of her temperament to not take in stride. She only showed signs of annoyance when she brushed her long silver hair and encountered a tangle that was too organic to be her own. With a flick of the comb and a suppression of horror, she flung the mess away in distaste.

Placing another log on the fire, Dernhelm sat down to take the first watch, staring off into darkness of the east. Three days would see him at the boundary of the domain of the elves, and he could not help but wonder if he would be granted admittance. He had made several decisions about the nature of their entry – as much as they could control – and he avoided thinking just how his companions would react. But he knew it was the only way. If they were not allowed to enter… that was a line of reasoning he could not allow. The embers burned low by the time he woke Daelan to take over.

The walk over the next two days was peaceful and straightforward – and odiferously pleasant – and as they looked to the horizon, they could make out the faint outlines of the rounded hills that marked the boundary of the secluded elven realm. It was a sight few in the entire world had seen, which was why none of them were surprised to see the "hills" were really stubby, five-thousand foot, tree-covered mountains. Dernhelm estimated less than a day's march lay ahead of them.

Settling into camp, the end of the first leg of their journey in sight, they relaxed with small talk. Like Dernhelm previously, no one discussed the elven nation – since they all truly knew little – and focused more on the location of the Reaper's doorway and where their journey may take them. This made any conversation decidedly short because no one had the slightest inclination as to where the Enemy may lie. Nathyrra half-heartedly suggested Myth Drannor, a breeding ground for all manner of creatures evil, bringing a collective groan from her comrades. Daelan countered with several places all known to lie deep within orc-infested territory, bringing a knowing smile to each face, while Tarlin suggested Zhentil Keep. A long-time resident of Phlan, her hatred of the Zhentarim was well-founded and her wide-mouthed, open-eyed expression underscored her tongue-in-cheek suggestion. When Dernhelm added that the most likely place for the Enemy to appear was the Hightower of the Arcane in Luskan, they all fell down laughing.

Finally they settled down to another bland dinner of dried pork, a small campfire shielded from view in a copse of shadowtop, their dark crowns reflecting a diffuse coppery light with the fall of night. Even here – especially here – near the elven nation, they set another watch, this time with Nathyrra taking the first, the others dropping fitfully off to sleep. While they had no sketch of the land in which to place their position, they all had the feeling that they had crossed the dashed line of Lord Nasher's map into the unknown.

A little after midnight, as Nathyrra stood to wake Tarlin and end her shift, her back happened to be toward the dying campfire, allowing the fullness of her keen elven eyesight to face outward into the gloom. The shadowtops stood true to their names, mere silhouettes in the dark, and for a moment, she found herself reveling in the almost Cimmerian beauty of this forest. It was beautiful, the full welkin sparkling with uncountable stars in this place completely devoid of light pollution. Even Selȗne and her Tears were out in grand display, the chain of grey pearls following the waning crescent of their mother like ducklings – ducklings into an open mouth, admittedly.

Why this land should evoke such a peace, she could not say – many a beautiful and mysterious region she had trod through in nights darker than this – but her mind regarded the scene before her as one of perfection and calm flooded her mind. And then suddenly she felt homesick.

Memories of Lith My'athar came unbidden.

The Seer.

How long had it been since she had dreamed of the priestess of Eilistraee?

A drow in every respect, her snow white hair shining against her sable skin, aged but with a healthy vigor, the thing Nathyrra remembered most about her were the eyes. Customarily lavender, they held a deep understanding beyond their common hereditary appearance and a love for friend and foe alike, an emotion almost wholly absent from the subterranean elves. After her long flight alone through the Underdark, she could still picture the Seer, hand outstretched in peace to her, at the doors to the Temple, where she had fallen broken and bleeding.

And then her mind drifted to faces of friends she had not seen in several years: Rizolvir, master of enchantments who had fashioned for her the magical staff she now bore – a gift upon her ascension to minister for the Seer; Commander Imloth, who had fallen before the inner gates, battling a Baalor summoned by the Valsharess; even Valen Shadowbreath, his massive flail whizzing over his head as he smote dark elf after duergar as they defended the city.

At the last, she wondered how the tiefling was settling into his life at the Seer's court, sworn to be her lifelong protector. She had recently heard that he had taken up with some dark elf named Fade.

"_Perhaps to pass the time in the off hours,"_ she mused.

She could still see his flaming red hair standing out in stark contrast to his white skin and black, curved horns as he reprimanded Dernhelm for what he considered stupid risks. She smiled at the thought.

And then she gasped.

Unlike her surface cousins, drow rarely took waking walks through their memories, and Nathyrra had not done so since long before she had met Dernhelm. It was an intentional act, unlike human dreams, and the fact that she had entered into it unbidden made her hackles rise. It was this simple realization that saved them.

As she shook her head to clear it of these uninvited dreams, she caught the hint of movement at the limits of her vision, several huge, hulking forms standing among the trees, not quite wooden or still enough to be natural. Then her ears picked up the faintest sound of snuffling – her aural senses were far inferior to her eyes – as of a wolf sniffing the wind. Their campsite was being watched and she knew it was not for the good.

Moving slowly but calmly, so as not to reveal her knowledge of their presence, she walked over to Dernhelm, knelt as if to adjust his blanket, and whispered in his ear. To any outside observer it would seem that she was merely waking him for the next watch, or being matronly.

His eyes popped open and turned to regard her; a veteran, he did not cry out in alarm though he sensed her unease. She nodded her head over her shoulder and he levered himself up on one arm to see past her, his actions shielded by her body.

"Something huge," he whispered. "Maybe trolls?" His eyes scanned the darkness. "Many somethings if I were to look around, yes?"

Glancing up, she nodded.

"It would seem we have been welcomed to the land of the elves," he said mirthlessly.

Then he added after a moment: "Prepare yourself… something… dramatic…" Nathyrra shook her head in agreement. "I'll alert the others." He sat up slowly, stretching, as if waking peacefully from sleep, and casually looked over at Tarlin who lay beside him within arm's reach. As he did so, the creatures moved forward to the outer edge of their copse, not sixty feet distant.

Dernhelm needed to act fast. He couldn't however risk spooking Tarlin awake. Carefully he reached to within inches of her shoulder, but something caused him to hesitate at the last moment. He suddenly realized that he had never before been the one to wake her; he couldn't remember why, but the watch order hadn't seen them together in such a way. And even more startling, was the unbidden realization that she looked positively peaceful in sleep. A sudden movement of one of the monstrous forms caused him to jerk involuntarily and his hand clamped down on her left shoulder. Instantly a knife was in her right swinging in an upward cut at his wrist even as her eyes popped open.

There was no time for her to stop the motion. Dernhelm pulled his hand away and twisted at the last moment, catching the dagger on his bracer with a thwack audible even though metal had struck simple leather. Around him he could feel the creatures stiffen and draw their weapons and he knew that the ruse had been shattered. In fury they charged at the small camp.

"Flaming great," he shouted as he jumped to his feet, grabbing Enserric which lay sheathed on the ground beside him. Tarlin was alert enough at this point to realize what had happened and was rapidly becoming aware of the real danger, yet the transition caused her to be slow to get to her feet.

Drawing Enserric who yelled, "It's fight time, monkey!" Dernhelm turned to meet his enemy with a shout of "Orcs!"

It was the only way to alert his half-orc companion in time and the effect was instantaneous. Daelan awoke with a growl, hearing the name of his most hated enemies, and surged to his feet. He was not fast enough however to ready or even grab his axe by the time their forest sanctum was filled with the slathering, snarling faces of nearly a dozen giant gnolls.

At up to eight feet in height and nearly three hundred pounds, a gnoll has a projecting snout sporting canines over an inch long and fourteen powerful premolars for crushing bones. Add to this thick grey skin covered over most of their body with short, reddish-brown, spotted fur and a single member becomes a calamity.

The shock on Daelan's face was blatant but quickly fell prey to the battle lust and instinct of his barbarian upbringing. Many of the gnolls were armed with two-headed axes and heavy, steel shields but some jumped on the party with their bare hands. Luckily, Daelan was accosted by one of the latter. Digging into the earth of their shelter, half-orc and gnoll locked hands, elbows bent, each seeking to gain leverage in a battle that would be determined by sheer muscle.

Fighting a score of orcs is one matter, but even a much smaller number of gnolls something completely worse. Even hampered as they were by their sheer size and required swinging radius was little consolation. Outnumbered and outmatched in strength, Dernhelm still succeeded in scoring a slice across the neck of one of his assailants while deflecting cuts from two axes, but a third bit into his armor along his left side, eliciting a roar of pain and causing him to stagger. At that moment, he would gladly have faced a giant hand-to-hand to escape his present circumstance.

Tarlin fared little better, beset by two of the creatures with the others closing in. Parrying an axe cut, she caught another to the chest, a glancing swing to her breastplate which nearly caused her to stumble into the waiting arms of several more members of the pack.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Multi-colored streamers of energy shot out of the shadows behind the gnolls, scattering the darkness with twisting, coruscating light. Arching high overhead, they illuminated the undersides of the shadowtops with an otherworldly display and drew every eye, the battle momentarily forgotten for the eldritch dance above. For a second stretching into eternity, the streamers hung suspended in space but finally, even as Dernhelm seized the opportunity afforded by the distraction to plunge Enserric deep into the belly of one of the gnolls, the streamers fell, striking out at the their attackers like tongues of living fire. Each gnoll was pierced many times, almost too numerous to count, and the ribbons of energy continued to glow after they had connected with lupine flesh, an umbilical cord of pure radiance.

Gnoll mouths opened to scream but not a single sound could be heard except for the exhalations of pain from the defenders. Daelan unlocked his arms from his assailant in shock when the gnoll was struck, but the energy did not transfer through their contact.

After a long moment, the light vanished, plunging the copse into a stygian darkness, impenetrably black after the fulgid eruption. No one moved, yet the thicket echoed with a eleven muffled thumps. When the defenders could again see, they viewed a forest floor littered with the bodies of the gnolls, collapsed as marionettes with severed strings.

Dernhelm clutched his side, slightly stumbling to the untouched remains of the fire. Somehow he had also attained a shallow cut to his brow which was bleeding freely, and he leaned upon Enserric as a walking stick. Tarlin seemed also shaken but was surprisingly, physically intact, aside from a heavy amount of bruising beneath her breastplate and right greave where axes had struck her; the armor forged by Durga was obviously stronger than a gnoll-wielded axe. Daelan merely was completely out of breath and was drenched in sweat.

"_What_ was that?" Enserric asked suddenly, but his thought was echoed by everyone.

Stepping from the shadows at the edge of the ember light, Nathyrra's hair sparkled even as she smiled and took a grand bow, ignoring the injuries to her comrades.

"You did say dramatic," she said to Dernhelm, fixing him with an open-lipped grin that nearly split her face.

"Took you long enough," Dernhelm gritted in reply, his mouth slightly drawn into a grimace even as he eased himself to the ground. He suspected at least one of his ribs was broken.

"Well, upstaging _Isaac_ in all of his skill takes some time to cast!" she shot back, but her face became an odd mix of pride at her accomplishment and sympathy at her friends' plight. Then she added with a disarming smile, "Would you have liked me to have left you some of them, oh Master of Melodrama?"

Dernhelm merely grunted and started to bind his wounds.

They were a sorry-looking band as they entered the foothills of the hidden elves, Dernhelm with bandages wrapped around his side and head, his leather jerkin stowed poorly into his too-small backpack, and Tarlin favoring her left leg. They had passed the night fitfully, holding double watches, and they started out late, pushing their arrival at the true borders of Evereska almost to twilight.

Dernhelm would have preferred a daytime appearance to make full use of the Sun, but he assumed that even with his adept half-elven eyes, if they wanted to remain hidden he would never see his Evereskan cousins. His path was direct. Climbing from the plain around the elven kingdom, he sought any pass that may afford entrance; he did this without the deliberate search he would normally have employed believing fully that the elves would make a way known to him if they so chose.

The climb was difficult but not altogether arduous in their condition – they had all survived much worse – and it was made easier by the presence of a host of exotic and rare trees that grew on the slopes and perfumed the air with a nutty aroma. Blueleaf and shadowtop stood amongst weirwood and harbolons, the latter's twin trunks twining around themselves in a helical dance that reached nearly one hundred feet overhead. Silver gray leaves caught the fading glow of day and scattered it, producing a myriad of tiny lights that danced in the slight breeze like will-o-the-wisps. So beautiful was the display that Dernhelm almost considered making camp to enjoy the otherworldly beauty of the forest, but the weight of his mission was clamped around his heart and he hardened himself and continued to climb.

They had reached a little less than three thousand feet up the tallest of the hills as the light faded into dusk. Dernhelm called a halt and leaned against the bole of a large weirwood, its scaly bark a welcome comfort to the weary ranger. Tarlin slumped heavily on the ground next to him and extended her right leg; he looked down at her in concern. Nathyrra and Daelan seemed in otherwise good spirits, and Nathyrra's hands glided almost lovingly over some of the rarer trees as she made use of the respite to explore the wood. The slope rose another two thousand feet above them at most and Dernhelm thought he could just make out the top, bald and rocky, but it was hard to be sure amidst the intervening foliage.

The trees grew close enough to each other to provide a feeling of protection at their proximity and yet with enough separation in the canopy as to allow unimpeded glimpses of the night sky. As he turned about, Dernhelm saw the Stag chasing Melkor the Hunter in the heavens, and he smiled as he always did of the irony picked out in the sky by ancient dreamers. He could barely make out the Fisher to the Stag's left, obscured as it was from his viewing angle, but even Galaeron glowing red at the foot of the constellation appeared to burn more brightly and cheerily, his view somehow enhanced by the comfort of the wood.

The whole forest felt planned as if planted one sapling at a time, thought given to the view from any angle to make it pleasing to the eye, as a painter upon canvas. Masters of nature, only the elves could have given birth to such a marvel. Her heard Nathyrra's intake of breath behind him and he turned, but not out of fear. From anyone else, the sound would have been as a squeal of delight. The tree across which she was running her hands was an aldreawood, one of the rarest hardwoods in all the North, its bark practically glowing with a purplish light. The two-foot bole would have fetched a king's ransom in gold, and in all of Dernhelm's sixty-two years he had only seen one item fashioned from the substance, a small chalice owned by Alusair, Steel Regent of Cormyr, passed hereditarily down from the founding of the kingdom, over thirteen hundred years in the past.

He shifted his weight carefully in order to step up beside her, thoughts of his pains temporarily put aside at his friend's delight, but his foot stopped in mid air as if frozen. Not a sound had presaged the arrival of the other who stood calmly in their midst. A moon elf, its silver-blue hair shining as with its own internal radiance, wearing a suit of form-fitting elven chainmail, regarded them each in turn. When his eyes fell on Nathyrra, a scowl marred his perfect features. The elf was young-looking, though elven ages are hard to place, and handsome, his green irises set in almond eyes and flecked with gold.

When he had regained his composure – and was standing solidly on two feet – Dernhelm's eyes scanned the darkness for other hidden elves. Though he found nothing, it was clear they were being watched. And he knew it was likely not for their continued survival should this meeting go sour.

The elf stepped in front of Dernhelm as if knowing he was the leader – though his eyes never truly left Nathyrra – and held up his right hand palm outward, fingers together. It looked like a gesture barring passage. Not knowing if the gesture required a reply – who knew what served as a greeting among the hidden elves? – Dernhelm addressed the elf, ignoring it.

"We seek-" Dernhelm began, but the elf cut him off, his hand chopping down to the right in a signal that was unmistakable.

"You seek entrance to the fortress home of Evereska," the elf said directly, its voice musical yet bearing an unmistakable edge of anger. It was unclear if it was directed at the drow or at Dernhelm himself. "This request is denied."

Dernhelm continued undeterred – they had come too far to accept such a summary dismissal – using the clout provided by names of importance. Fame usually greased the wheels of any political machine. "We have come to this place at the advice and blessing of Elminster, Sage of Shadowdale."

The elf's expression remained unchanged as if the words meant nothing, only the barest flicker of acknowledgement indicating to Dernhelm that the elf even knew the name.

"We seek an object of power that can defeat the Enemy, Jangdwynyd, who threatens all of Toril." Prophecies of doom then?

"Your request is denied," the elf reiterated without missing a beat or even taking a moment for consideration. It became blatantly obvious that this elf would not be budged. At his side, Tarlin stepped forward to confront the elf, but Dernhelm raised his hand to stop her.

The elf was acting immoveable as stone, yet Dernhelm knew the elf was looking for something. Had the Evereskans meant to completely bar them entrance without possibility of appeal the elf would not have deigned to show himself. Dernhelm's party would either have been killed or magically diverted. That suggested the elves knew why they were there or at least who they were, but what were they looking for?

Were they testing him? Feeling out what he knew?

Nathyrra's pack lay less than two feet away and Dernhelm bent to rummage through it, shifting aside spell components and vials of variously colored liquids. His hand hit something hard and wooden and he drew it out, the intricately carved boxed they had found over a week ago in the High Moors. The elf stood there calmly as Dernhelm worked and his eyes barely flickered when Dernhelm proffered the ancient artifact.

He figured he would try another tactic: flattery. Presenting it before the elf, Dernhelm said "We found this in the ruins of Miyeritar and figured that of all wise and powerful elves, you would want this artifact of power returned to you."

No change. Only that edge of anger and the scowl for Nathyrra.

"Your request is denied."

Dernhelm gritted his teeth and tossed the box callously on the ground at the elf's feet. Neither gave it a passing thought as his action in no way endangered an artifact created at the height of elven power, but a slight sneer turned the corner of the moon elf's mouth.

Dernhelm wanted to strike the elf but he kept his anger in check. This was a test, of that he had no doubt, but one in which he was neither privy to the rules nor the protocols. Was it obeisance they wanted? Were they testing his temper? The latter seemed more plausible giving the elf's utter disinterest in rapprochement but he could not imagine the elves being so petty or knowing him so well.

Subsuming his anger and ignoring his friends' stares at they realized what he was going to do, he bent at the waist, a right angle inclination a vassal may give to a liege lord.

In response, the moon elf laughed.

This was too much for Dernhelm. For all Dernhelm's warning hand of restraint to Tarlin, he could not now control himself. His vision became filled with his wife broken in a bed, friends dead at the hands of this enemy, and the looming threat to all he loved. And now an elf stood before him impudently and callously barring passage to the one thing that may save them all.

Surprising even the elf with his quickness and despite his injuries, he grabbed the guardian by the collar of his chainmail and pulled him within inches of his face. He could hear the sudden intakes of breath of his friends and the unmistakable sound of bows being drawn in the darkness. What he had felt before was effectively confirmed; they were surrounded.

However, Dernhelm did not care.

The sheer vitriol in his voice dripped like acid. "We have come a long way – and passed your flaming _test_ of gnolls – and we have a long way to go. We need what you have… and you… need… us, and we have no time for childish games!" With each emphasized word, he lifted the elf higher from the ground.

Silence filled the forest and the elf's eyes bulged in alarm, his previous boldness replaced by the inimitable suggestion of fear. And then, behind the elf, a matronly female voice spoke.

"I told you that living among the humans would foster violent behavior."

Dernhelm didn't bother to look up.

"Hello, _mother_," he spat.


	12. Chapter XI: The Ice All Between

**Chapter XI: The Ice All Between**

For several long minutes, the pounding continued unabated, a massive tree trunk drawn back by ogres under the cover of the fire-resistant roof and released to crash with a resounding boom against the gates. The metal entryway shuddered but held, even as pieces of the ornate carvings of heroes and legendary beasts that adorned the exterior bent into disfigured lumps and the doors bowed inward alarmingly. Then a cauldron of oil was brought to bear along the intact section of wall above the gates, a cascade of naphtha that soaked the upper structure of the siege ram. With a flick of her fingers Eltoora set it alight turning the wooden frame into a bonfire. Orcs scrambled around it with bladders of water, even at risk from the archers on the wall, but it was no use; the heat was so intense that it overcame the meager protection afforded by the saturated wood and the structure shuddered.

The ogres below continued the rhythmic motion of the ram, blinded to the danger above them, driven by the single-minded need for destruction. Then one of the front supports gave way and the top leaned to the left. As the ogres moved the beam again, a chain snapped from the canted roof, and the ram swung to the right, striking another front support. Within seconds, the destruction was complete, the framework buckling under the uneven weight, collapsing vertically on the ogres. It was only then that screams issued from nearly a score of throats, as if whatever spell had held the ogres in its thrall was broken under realization of imminent death.

As the flames rose skyward, Eltoora allowed herself to smile at her handiwork, for the last of the battering rams was destroyed and the gates still held. The ensuing conflagration acted to diminish the severity of the fighting above the gates, flames somehow angrier than the pigmen that wanted them dead. It was a small reprieve, if well-earned, but soon, she knew, that she and her two war-wizards would be forced to join the battle in earnest.

She had only to look at the siege towers – not two thousand feet from the walls and approaching – to dampen her enthusiasm. Over three stories tall, the structures were formed out of green wood, thoroughly soaked to retard fire from even magical means. And that failed to take into account the sheets of thick metal that formed a tight carapace, even around the seams of the drop gates, and the swarming sea of orcs and undead that seemed to seethe from every possible handhold, screaming or thumping axe on shield as if to spur the machines to greater speed.

From the Blacklake District to the Beggar's Nest the wall was assailed. As the rams had approached the gates and the undead army of which Demas had warned had been spied from the wall, the orcs and troll-kin attacked with a renewed fury, nearly matching the defenders with pure determination coupled with tactics that became more devious with each passing moment. Scaling ladders flew up as fast as they were cut down, the orcs swarming like ants in their effort to destroy the defenders. Reports had even come in of a small force assailing the Peninsula District from the sea, crude boats fashioned by orc hands, but Lord Hadrian had been quick to sink them.

And with each moment, Nasher's face grew grimmer. They had started the day with less than one half of the force in the field, but Nasher could not conceive how even with such a numerical superiority the enemy could assail over four thousand feet of wall with equal ferocity. Even the approaching siege towers did not provide a satisfactory accounting.

Were they gaining forces without him knowing? From where?

Naturally, the enemy focused on those parts of the wall that were hardest to defend – chiefly the broken battlements where the two Varax had died – and paradoxically he was glad. Commonly thralls to greater powers, all had seen orcs ignore personal safety to achieve a goal, but these were as ordered as they were reckless, a combination that startled the defenders and led to early losses. Had such intensity been seen at heavily fortified and thus illogical areas, his soldiers may well have fled in panic.

Even as he ruminated, a rain of arrows sung out from the walls into the ranks of the Susian assailants, and the militia fell upon those who reached the parapets with military-like precision under the direction of Lord Austrion. Back they were driven time and again, orcs falling to their death with sickening sounds of impact lost in the tumult of battle. Lords Devon and Sethan – the only members of the Nine on the main section of wall – strode about the parapets helping wherever necessary.

Would they be able to hold out? Nasher wondered.

To Eltoora's left, the orcs suddenly found a weakness in the lines, one of their feints catching the defenders off guard, and orcs began to pour onto the battlements. The militiamen stood their ground valiantly but were quickly overrun, and the orcs spread out along that section of wall in a crude defensive formation. The Uthgardt, who had fortuitously been stationed nearby, witnessed the massive inflow of orcs, and threw themselves at the enemy defenders in a desperate effort to dislodge them. Their ferocity fully justified their totemic symbol as they all but tore the orcs apart with their claw-like daggers. They were quickly joined by Lord Austrion and every man he could spare, sword striking shield with a crash.

It was a valiant effort, but it was not enough.

The sight of their first big success whipped the army below into an even greater frenzy, and the siege towers trundled ever closer. Even Lord Nasher directing one of his archer captains to train arrows on the climbing shapes did little to deter them. Many fell screaming to the ground, feathers sprouting from chests and necks, but always another orc was ready to take its place.

Grabbing Jondin, one of her war-wizards, she pointed at the orcs upon the parapets. They could no longer hold in reserve. "Missile storm, and be quick about it," she said, nearly propelling him forward. To Eric, her other former apprentice, she pointed at two of the siege towers which, in their haste to exploit openings in the field to more quickly reach the wall, had gotten close enough as to nearly collide. They were within three hundred feet of the wall now, at the limits of Eric's spell range.

"Put a fireball just so," she pointed at the right edge of one of the structures. "That may set them both alight."

Nodding, he began his incantations, drawing out a ball of bat guano and some sulphur from the leather scrip at his side.

The words died in his throat.

One of the bone golems, somehow unobserved in the confusion, threw a rock the size of a pony at the wall, striking just to Eric's right, knocking both he and Eltoora from their feet and showering them with bits of rock and wall. Shaking her head to clear it, Eltoora was quick to rise to her feet lest an assailant attack in her weakness, but her haste caused her to breathe in a helping of the rock dust that floated about her. Coughing loudly and flailing as if to banish the bad air, the sounds of battle receded as she cast about for her fallen comrade. She found him not five feet distant. Eric lay staring up into space unblinking, a jagged chunk of rock protruding from above his left eye.

She stared at the body blankly.

Eltoora had seen much death before but it had been nearly two decades since it had been one of her own. She stumbled toward him, oblivious to the world about her.

And at that moment, twenty beams of twisting light illuminated the sky to her left, interrupting her morose thoughts even as she considered Eric's surprised face. The streamers lashed out at the orcs that stood in defense, passing between and around barbarians and militiamen alike, whose determination nearly equaled the magical brightness. A dozen orcs died in seconds and the rest recoiled in pain, their wounds invisible but nonetheless grievous.

The effect was instantaneous.

The orc fortification collapsed as the humans launched themselves into the suddenly startled orcs, driving the orcs into their comrades that had thought the wall safe, pushing them relentlessly to the long fall back to the earth below. Even the barbarians, who naturally distrusted magic, were not put off by the display, and their daggers cut mercilessly into the twisted humanoids.

Eltoora's thoughts were a tumult of emotions, caught between all the moments of this sudden chain of events. Turning, she saw Svalgard, leader of the barbarian band, smiling at her even as he crushed the life from one of the few remaining orcs between his left arm and his chest. Her mind prevented reciprocation.

But this was not the case for the rest of the defenders.

As the last orc fell from that section of wall, a cry went up, the hurrah of a masterfully executed maneuver that acted as a counterpoint to the enthusiastic orcs of moments before. The defenders knew it was only a momentary reprieve as the orcs below regrouped for another assault, albeit with diminished ferocity, but any lull in battle was cause for celebration. Many even patted Jondin on the back at his impeccable timing with the indication that much free wine would flow after the battle.

Eltoora began to reign in her thoughts, chastising herself at allowing weakness when the threat of death was something they all assumed when they took to the wall.

"_I can mourn for Eric later,_" she said to herself.

And then the last of the Varax dropped from the sky on the celebrating – and therefore momentarily distracted – defenders, and breathed an intense blast of electricity. Lord Austrion and his comrades did not have opportunity to even see their deaths approaching. The battlements glowed blue as the energy crackled along the wall, and militiamen and barbarian either melted or exploded into flame. Packed tightly together, crowded by necessity to stop the advancing horde of orcs, the most men possible had been caught by the creature's blast.

Eltoora reacted instinctively, anger replacing every possible thought. Drawing a gem from her pouch, she uttered the words of a spell in a hurried, yet precise tone. It was a spell she had cast only once before, and for twenty years had never memorized it, likely because it only accomplished one specific and normally useless task. For some reason she _had_ done so last evening, and a wild plan took shape in her mind.

The Varax rose high in the sky, out of bowshot – though arrows flew overhead in a desperate attempt to destroy it – and turned to make another deadly pass. As she uttered the final word of the spell and crushed the gem, a staff of amber appeared in her left hand. As if sensing the discharge of magic, the Varax suddenly turned on its right wingtip, and this time fell toward her its mouth agape. She did not hesitate, pointing the amber staff at the creature and releasing its magic.

A coruscating ball of energy shot forth and enveloped the Varax, coalescing into a giant bubble. Several of the surviving defenders along that section of wall dove for cover, but she was unconcerned. It would only die when she had need of it. Swinging her arm toward the cluster of siege towers she had identified to Eric – this time a third had gotten nearly entangled with the first two – the ball of energy rocketed toward them, the shape of the Varax faintly visible inside as it struggled against the walls of its deformable but unbreakable prison. The orcs on the towers looked at the sphere in incomprehension, but some raised their arms in defense anyway as if assuming the worst.

Muttering the word of ending, the sphere vanished and the Varax, hale and healthy, plummeted to the earth, its sense of direction momentarily destroyed. It righted itself not fifteen feet off the ground and began to cast about for its intended victim. Eltoora wasted no time.

Pointing her finger at the Varax, she spoke the word of a spell she had held in reserve for the most desperate of moments.

"Rilyeah!" she screamed and the Varax died, instantly.

The resulting explosion was enormous. The top of the closest siege tower was practically vaporized, orcs and undead torn apart even as they continued their forward march, pieces of their bodies striking their comrades like shrapnel. Too far away to accomplish such massive structural damage to the others, the shockwave still managed to cause them to crack and splinter, and one of them leaned dramatically, spilling a attackers onto their cohort below, raising cries of pain.

Lord Nasher and his two Lord guards, fighting hand-to-hand along another fiercely contested piece of wall, witnessed the death of Lord Austrion and the resulting destruction of the Varax with detached emotion. He estimated that less than three thousand defenders remained, while nearly seven thousand orcs and undead still held the field. Holes lined the battlements and the gates were dangerously weakened, and still the orcs came on, even as his soldiers were fighting a battle with their own emotions as they went from euphoric peak to gut-wrenching depression.

Two completely intact siege towers were within two hundred feet of the walls and though his archers managed to kill some of their bearers and set parts of the structures aflame, he suspected that they could not be kept from contact. Eltoora had committed herself and her war-wizards – at least one of which he presumed to be dead – and more reserve infantry and trebuchet were still days away…

Gripping his sword until his knuckles were white, he forced away such thoughts. They would fight to the last man – no quarter asked and certainly none expected – and they would prevail. He was too stubborn, had survived too many battles to fall to this rabble, and while he felt old too often of late, he was anything but weak. As if to underscore the point, an orc evaded Lord Devon, axe raised above its head, but Nasher lunged forward, taking it in the neck. Blood spurted across his mustaches as the orc looked at him in surprise but he ignored it. Withdrawing his blade, he kicked the corpse to the stones and roused himself further by spitting on it in contempt.

Leading Lords Devon and Sethan, he resolutely strode along the wall encouraging the defenders, supporting wherever they were needed. Not a few times he was forced into battle with the clash of sword on shield, but he joined heartily, felling his enemies with authority and teaching them the price for attacking his city. His shining armor was soon marred by blood and missing chunks of gilt.

And with every step, his soldiers won their inner debate.

Seeing their lord suddenly involved in the thick, not standing back and directing as they expected he would, the soldiers and even the militia held their ground with renewed vigor, making the remaining barbarians smile at their tenacity.

To his left, this sudden determination was made manifest dramatically, the soldiers standing immoveable against an orc onslaught for several long moments, allowing the wizard Jondin needed time to prepare a more potent spell. A contingent of orcs that had scaled the wall was caught with a spray of fire that shot out from his fingers, causing hair and skin to alight with a whoosh. Screaming, the orcs tried to beat out the flames, but were driven from the walls by arrows and a resolute push of the militia. The humanoid embers ignited comrades as they fell and one whole ladder became an inferno, a half-dozen orcs leaping to their deaths as they futilely tried to prevent their cremation.

A renewed spirit seemed even to pervade remote corners of the field, flying on some favorable wind, for at that moment the cavalry that had gotten separated from the main group the previous day appeared, cutting into the exposed flanks of the besiegers. Catching the enemy completely by surprise, they killed or scattered a sizeable number of the orcs. Skirting the stronger of the undead, they made more charges, their lances and swords biting deeply into orc-flesh. It was more of a harassing tactic; the army dwarfed them by more than thirty times, but as most were focused on the wall, the effect was noticeable.

And then Eltoora joined in, unleashing one of her most powerful spells; four giant glowing boulders appeared above her head to streak out at the remaining siege towers, their tails spreading long in the sky, like giant meteors. As they struck, they blossomed into huge balls of fire. So hot were they, and delivered with enough force to cause the structures to crack, that even the countermeasures to curb open flames proved insufficient. Twin towering infernos erupted on the field and the creatures inside screamed even as they burst alight. The remaining two meteors struck amidst the undead and orcs, incinerating two ragged holes in the line of the attackers, fully sixty feet across.

Her anger, coupled with the knowledge that Jondin had escaped the Varax unharmed, gave her strength. Within seconds, lighting rained down among the disarrayed enemy and many were repaid for the electric death the defenders had suffered.

Smiling as she heard many on the field groaning in agony, she raised her hand again even as she manipulated the spell components at her waist.

But as with all battles, successes could not continue in perpetuity.

Somehow in the confusion and triumphs of the moment, no one had seen the bone golem or the boulder weighing over half a ton which it hurled with tremendous force to smash with a colossal boom at the gates.

The metal crossbar, twisted and bent from the previous day's barrage, practically tore crosswise. The gates shuddered and sagged. Nasher screamed at the sudden realization of their danger, but it was no use. Neither Jondin nor Eltoora were in position to stop the creature, distracted by more immediate battles. And the archers on that section of the wall were wholly underequipped to deal with the undead behemoth below, their arrows bouncing from its osseous hide. Striding up to the gates, the golem struck at them with its powerful fists, heedless to the bits of bone that broke off of it, its single-minded mission to open the city to invasion.

In the courtyard behind the gates, it was barely controlled panic. Though the fight was focused on the walls, Nasher had prepared for all eventualities and had left nearly one thousand soldiers in reserve. However, the attrition caused by the orcs forced him to dip into this pool, and now only about one third stood uncommitted. Fully trained in every respect and still a formidable force, they were nevertheless anxious at the echoes from the gates and the nether creature they portended.

Knowing that the strained gates could not take such punishment even with his engineers working frantically to install wooden supports, Nasher looked on helplessly, confined as he was to the defense of the walls. Grabbing Jondin, he pointed at the golem, but the war-wizard threw up his hands in exasperation. Burning orcs were one thing, but the creature was out of his league.

And so the golem continued its pounding practically unimpeded, joined by a small cadre of orcs and ogres, hell bent on bringing down the hated gates that had for so long resisted them.

And concomitantly, the wave above struck the walls with a fury in anticipation of entrance, and the defenders continued to be hard-pressed to keep the orcs at bay.

Finally, the gates fell inward, a fifteen foot opening in twisted metal that admitted a flood of orcs. Arrows struck many of them down as they jumped through, the rest, pinioned on projecting polearms. The bone golem was slower to appear, wading through fallen bodies rather than stepping around them, forcing the gates a little wider. Even still, it had to duck to pass the gates but no one dared exploit its distraction at the possibility of being struck by its four foot fists.

Arrows bounced uselessly from its bones and several defenders brandished polearms, but most chose to ignore it in favor of the more fleshy orcs. They were certainly present in sufficient abundance to occupy the general consciousness and a fired arrow was virtually assured to find a mark.

Many fell beneath their jagged and cruel weapons but still the defenders fought on. A cornered badger can deter the most stalwart man and it was therefore no surprise that animals with higher-order logic conceiving of hearth and home should push back all the harder. Completely outnumbered, the men of Neverwinter held their ground, soldiers and militia heroically filling breaches made by fallen brothers and friends, desperately attempting to keep their enemy from running amok in the city. The bodies of their brethren became like walls to bar passage, mournful thoughts subsumed by the defenders' need to stay alive and the belief that their comrades would wish to keep on fighting even in death.

But the bone golem was not so easily thwarted. Changing direction wildly, like a marionette controlled by a mad puppeteer, it careened through orcs and men alike, crushing any that stood in its way. Several times, the soldiers successfully pushed the orcs into its path to slow it down, but were quickly buried under thrown bodies or flattened under its powerful swipes. Driven backward, the center of their defensive line was soon nearly pinned against the rear wall of the Hall of Justice, a sizeable bowshot from the parapets. Their lines thinned alarmingly into a distorted U-shape.

Suddenly, Eltoora was there amidst the defenders, standing resolutely before the bone golem. Her hand was gloved in leather, an intricate set of overlapping rings of copper and zinc held in front of her. As she completed the conjuration, a glowing fist five feet in diameter – angry red and seemingly of stone – appeared and rocketed directly into the golem, knocking him backward with the sound of splintering bone. Again and again the fist struck, driving the golem to the ground, crushing the life from it with stunning blows. The humans rallied around her, stunned but beyond caring, forcing the orcs back against the gates, and using their swine-like bodies to slow further incursions.

Stepping forward calmly, Eltoora looked down on the ruin of her enemy for several moments, allowing the fist to batter into the very stone of the street. And then she dismissed it with a word and spit the sum of all her hatred on the fragments of bone at her feet.

For the leader of the Many-Starred Enclave, who had lost one of her own to this hell-spawned creature, she would be damned if it would take any more lives.

"What is it, Halion?" Lord Nasher asked the guard that ran huffing to his side. He stood to the south of the gate now, leaning against the parapets and watching the battle rage on the walls, his Lord guards taking what leisure the battle and their own hearts permitted them. It was only entering late afternoon of the second day, but it felt like they had been fighting for two weeks. His arms burned from swinging his sword and not because of his age. A more continuous battle he had not personally engaged in since his raid on Voonlar some thirty years earlier and no amount of practice could have prepared him for the bone-wearying toll that hacking real armor and flesh exacted.

The guard's eyes were shaking and Nasher knew the news was not favorable, but he kept his disquiet from his face. The guard had come from the Beggar's Nest, a run of nearly half a mile considering the disorder of the streets, and the last thing he needed – any of Nasher's subordinates needed – was a morose look from their commander.

"My lord," Halion began after a moment, still trying to catch his breath. "Lord Orhan has fallen."

"Tigius," Nasher began but then swallowed his words. He had suspected when he had seen the guard that this was his message.

"How?" he said, after a moment.

"The orcs had topped the walls and were hard pressed for a moment and then we drove them back… and then skeletons and wights and such started climbing the walls.

"We were surprised at first, but Lord Orhan mounted a defense, and luckily, one of the priests of Tyr happened to be with us so he took care of the spooks right away…"

Lord Nasher raised a gloved hand to stroke his mustaches, dried blood flaking away at the touch. Halion interpreted the gesture as a sign to hurry up and he nearly stammered over his next words.

"Then… well, he… then a ghoul appeared out of nowhere and touched him before any of us had a chance to react. He became like a dead man. We set upon the beast with abandon and drove it from the walls, rescuing Lord Orhan, but when the priest examined him, he said he was already dead."

Lord Nasher looked out at the battlefield, littered with dead orcs and the bones of broken skeletons, and sighed. Lord Orhan had been a close confidante among the Nine, his deliberate, calculating mind picking out the details Lord Nasher missed, shrewdly building the city up one trade deal or treaty at a time. And now he was gone.

And what was more, he was gone to an undead creature. Of all the parts of the city, only the Beggar's Nest had been truly attacked by the Cult of the Dragon's creations. Nearly two decades earlier, it had been the only part of the city beset by undead during the Wailing Death.

"_Such irony,_" he thought.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Halion said in a voice that was nearly despondent as if he himself had done the deed, and it was then that Nasher realized he was clenching one fist tightly while the other spasmodically fingered his sword hilt. Lords Devon and Sethan were standing nearby, their faces grim through their helmets. The gods only knew how they were facing the news.

Nasher again forced aside his negative thoughts.

"Who commands the wall now?" Nasher asked in the calmest tone he could muster, pulling his hands to rest at his sides. The ruse seemed to work as Halion visibly relaxed.

"Eravian, my lord," the guard remarked. "Captain of the 5th company."

"Yes, I know of him," Nasher remarked, calling up an image of the rugged, middle-aged man. "Capable lad, that one. The wall is in safe hands, Halion."

The guard smiled, his sides still heaving from his run, though his breathing was coming easier.

"Go to the Hall and rest for a moment and then return to the Nest Wall," Nasher commanded, but Halion merely nodded and smiled. It was evident from his posture and the sets of his eyes he was eager to return to the defense regardless of what his lord commanded him to do. "I thank you for bringing me this information and you do your city proud."

Halion nodded, grinned and bowed seemingly all at once, stammering a gracious "Thank you, my lord," even as he turned hurriedly to leave.

At seeing such determination in his subordinate's eyes, the same resolve that had seemed to wax and wane in himself throughout the day, he gritted his teeth into a sure smile.

"Hold just a little longer and we shall win the day," Nasher said with such conviction that he quite nearly squashed the lingering murmur of doubt in his heart. He clenched his fist before his face as in victory.

Halion grinned widely and then took off down the parapet stairs at a run.

"And then the Nine were Five," Lord Sethan said over his shoulder.

For several more hours the battle raged. The orcs would gain the wall only to be driven off, or would make an effective foray into the city before being corralled. The numbers on both sides gradually diminished. Of the entire enemy's siege arsenal – rams, towers, and golems – only one golem still remained to damage the walls with the concussive force of huge rocks. The second had been destroyed by the combined power of Jondin and Eltoora, raining hail stones upon it and its comrades, crushing it to the earth.

Even the kobolds had taken part in the fighting. Deekin had found a connecting tunnel between the aqueducts and the surface to the north of the city – something that Nasher would need to inspect and seal when this was over – and his small, reptilian soldiers threw their spears into the ranks of orcs causing no small amount of confusion. So diminutive were they that the orcs could not catch them; the kobolds darted in quickly to stab a knee here or a side there only to flee when the orcs showed signs of defense. Deekin even unleashed his dragon-like breath on several occasions, the fire catching the orcs completely off guard as it came from a creature his size, setting no fewer than one dozen alight.

Lord Nasher grinned genuinely, for the first time in what seemed like ages as it seemed evident that the defenders would take the day. Their resolution was just too strong and their position – even still – too well-defended to be overrun. Reports had come in from his commanders along the wall that everything was secure; the walls had not been threatened since Lord Orhan fell in the Beggar's Nest.

Below him, the orcs advanced once more into the city in an effort to secure the gates, but they were all but forced to climb over the mountain of their fallen kin. The defenders rallied with spear and arrow and soon many of the orcs were added to the pile of wasted lives. Observing the battle from the walls, Nasher watched as their numbers dwindled as they did each time, the orcs driven back with every loss.

"_Another victory,_" Nasher thought. "_Just a few more and they won't have the numbers for even their magically-enhanced morale._"

And even as he smiled, a wave of fear struck him, forcing him to his knees. It was the single most horrifying thing he had ever experienced in his life, and he cried out in shock as much for the suddenness of it as for its intensity. Not a nightmare of a nameless fear that awakens in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, but a torrent of simple, overwhelming dread. His breath left him in a rush and caused his head to swim. Could he think rationally, he may have surmised that it was somehow brought on by magic, but it took him several long moments to even remember where he was, and a nearly herculean effort not get up only to run. Clutching the bare stone of the parapet, he tried to rise in spite of his terror even as a giant shadow passed overhead, but the weight of his fear pulled him leaden back to the ground. All along the wall, he could see his soldiers crying out as dread settled over them; many threw down their weapons and some lay huddled against the walls sobbing. A few even flung themselves from the walls. Lord Sethan crouched to his right, his face ashen behind his helmet, eyes glued on the skies above.

The orcs however, were unaffected – actually strengthened – by this pall, crying out in awe and celebration, and their assault, which moments before seemed about to fail, surged forward, cutting through the fear-stricken defenders. Many soldiers were hewn down without the ability to even lift a sword, and those who did so made only feeble attempts. In moments, the crippled wall of spears and shields broke at several points as the orcs all but skied down the piles of dead, and the assembled were nearly routed.

Upon the walls the battle was also going sour. New scaling ladders were thrown up as the defenders lay about in confusion and terror, and the rejuvenated orcs resolutely began to climb. Should the outer walls fall along with the quickly crumbling defense in the courtyard, the entire city may be lost, with its protectors too stricken to even fall back to the castle.

The hope of victory had become the threat of conquest in mere seconds.

With all his strength, earned through a lifetime of adventures, Nasher fought his fear and looked upward. Above him, a dragon flew overhead in long sweeping arcs, its graceful necked outstretched and its wings beating against the air. White against the sky, its scales hung in tatters and long pieces of flesh drooped down from it, twisting even as it turned. Of all the feared denizens of the skies, this one was the strongest, a creature born through death and virtually indestructible.

"Dracolich!" he heard the normally nasal Lord Devin call out in a strangled voice behind him, and his own fears were confirmed. The cries of men began to change into wails of despair.

"So this is why the Cult of the Dragon is involved," Nasher forced himself to think, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists against his panic. "This must be the control behind the army."

No stronger foe could Nasher have wished for and all his hopes to save the city seemed to evaporate. The dragon dipped low over the courtyard, scattering the defenders. Making straight for the biggest group of them it let loose a tremendous blast with its icy breath, freezing the defenders in place, their features carved in throes of agony. The orcs came on unabated, pouring into the city, lashing out at the frozen forms and shattering them into dust.

Forcing off their fear as best they could, Nasher and the Two staggered to their feet even as a wave of orcs which had made the wall crashed into them. Lord Sethan went down under a flurry of axes wielded by his marshal inferiors, his fear making all skill seem to leak from the chinks in his armor along with his blood. Nasher caught an axe on his bracer, numbing his left arm even as he found his footing and drove a wild strike from his sword into the orc's side.

To the north, he could see more defenders go down under a wash of ice as the dragon pumped its tattered wings to regain the skies. Not an arrow was loosed at it though its body was within easy bowshot.

Where is Dernhelm, my hated enemy? a cold, lifeless voice blossomed in their minds. The voice seemed colossally large yet vastly distant, as a giant yelling down a mighty tunnel. Let him come that he may look upon this body and despair.

Nasher looked at the dracolich in surprise. "Was this _the_ Enemy?" Nasher thought as he shook his head to clear it, fear again gripping his mind like a hawk its prey. An orc, taking advantage of their bewilderment, struck Lord Devon a savage blow to his left knee and he sank to the stones; only the deft maneuvers of Lord Nasher saved him.

Suddenly, lightning lashed out from the wall to his left striking the dragon in the chest, hurtling it backward in the sky. And just as suddenly, the pall of fear lifted slightly and Nasher became composed enough to be able to look about himself even in the midst of battle. In front of him, an orc stopped in unexpected confusion and Devon ran him through from his half-kneeling position, but Nasher's eyes were focused elsewhere. Eltoora stood virtually alone on a small strip of wall next to the broken gates, her body encased in a shell of white light, her eyes unafraid. Her hand was pointing outward at the undead dragon.

Roaring in pain, the dracolich turned and hovered for a moment, considering the small figure that had injured it. It was hard to believe there was much to consider. The disparity in size between the combatants seemed almost comical, but Nasher was not in the least bit amused. This small woman was their primary hope.

Impudent! I shall crush this city! Beating its wings mightily, the creature rose high into the sky and then plummeted at a steep angle, its mouth open directly at Eltoora. His friend of many years, however, stood there unshaken, her lips moving in incantation, her fingers gesturing wildly.

The dracolich gained speed, rocketing forward, the swiftness of its passing likely far stronger than any emanation of its breath. Concomitantly, virtually all activity – and all sound – on the battlefield ceased. Orc and human seemed to hold their collective breath, all watching the struggle in the hopes of drastically different outcomes.

When the dracolich closed to within one hundred feet, a sound finally echoed across the battlefield, but it was not a word from the suddenly shocked Eltoora, mouth open and concentration disrupted.

"Tymofarrar!" Deekin shouted in his tinny voice, his wings pumping hard as he came alongside the remains of his old master. His small reptilian face was twisted in rage as he surveyed the horror visited upon this once proud dragon. The dracolich ignored him completely, a juggernaut to a gnat as it bore down on the small wizard. It ignored him, that is, until Deekin latched directly onto the remnants of the right eye socket and let loose all of the pent up fire contained in his little belly.

The dracolich tried to rear back in sudden pain, clutching at its ruined eye, but Deekin continued to claw at its face, and the two tumbled wildly through space, their forward momentum unstoppable. Eltoora ran from her perch atop the parapets, diving for the protection afforded by the suddenly small crenellations, even as the dracolich and its diminutive destroyer slammed headlong into the wall.

Fifteen feet of stone lifted into the sky, torn from its foundation to crash into the courtyard. The orcs and defenders who had mere moments before been staring up with rapt attention broke into a terrified run. It was of little use. Many were crushed beneath the falling missiles even as the battlefield echoed to the sickening sounds of snapping bone. A rent, twenty feet wide at the top and jagged opened the city onto the plain outside but no orcs took advantage of the indefensible hole. Even as the mass of rock settled down into a plume of dust and pain, the pall of fear was extinguished, the defenders gasping with the breathlessness and utter thankfulness of one awakened briskly from a nightmare. And then all semblance of order and ferocity, moments before burning so brightly, seemed to evaporate from their orc assailants, who turned about as if shocked as to where they found themselves.


	13. Chapter XII: Demons in an Ageless City

**Chapter XII: Demons in an Ageless City**

Dernhelm sighed and set down the elf.

Leaning his head back, eyes closed and teeth gritted, he steepled his hands across the bridge of his nose, thumbs under his jaw.

And completely ignored the nonplussed faces of his companions and the elf he had just "manhandled."

"I had assumed," he began, his words echoed and breathy. "That after my long absence things would be different, but you have just proven me wrong."

Appearing as a faint outline in the darkness, his mother said nothing, but the position of her body suggested she was staring at the side of his face.

After a moment, Dernhelm turned to view her with a grim stare, impatience lighting his countenance like a bonfire. "Are you to deny us entrance, then?"

Ignoring his query she replied, "Twenty-seven years and not a kind greeting?" Her voice was a full contralto.

"And I should assume that gnolls and assholes count as yours?"

The male moon elf glowered at him but when Dernhelm's mother said nothing in return, he bristled at her as well. Clearly she had encouraged his verbal abuse but kept the identity of his victim confidential.

At his mother's silence, Dernhelm grunted and turned to his bewildered companions, effectively disregarding her. With visible effort, his features softened.

"I didn't know she was here," he explained, after a moment, his voice calm but tight. "When last we parted she was-"

Behind him his mother nearly growled at being ignored, stopping him in mid-sentence. "You will be admitted."

All four companions' heads came up at the proclamation, but each bore a different expression. Daelan looked taken aback by the suddenness of it while Tarlin kept staring between Dernhelm and the outline of his mother with looks of surprise. Nathyrra evinced a mixture of awe and distrust; seeing the priceless aldreawood grow as if it were just a part of the landscape, her magical mind yearned for the secrets of power this ancient city may flippantly display while simultaneously doubting one of her skin would be so easily accepted.

For his part, Dernhelm laughed sardonically and fixed his friends with a wink. This only furthered their expressions of utter confusion and made his mother nearly seethe.

"It seems you have failed my test as well, _mother_," he said, turning to sneer.

Suppressing what they could easily imagine was apoplexy, she added with vitriol, "_But_, you must enter Evereska under _our_ control." And then the outline turned as if to walk away.

With a gesture, two moon elves appeared out of the darkness bearing silken cords and long cloths like sacks intended for covering their heads. Dernhelm shrugged and held out his wrists, a smug expression still gracing his lips. It was to be expected: few of less-than-full elf blood had ever entered Evereska and its secrecy had become legendary. While he would like to absorb all of this alien land, if it got him closer to his goal of saving Neverwinter, he would go trussed up like a holiday pig at the Feast of the Moon.

But the elves did not approach him. They stepped only in front of Daelan and Nathyrra.

Brows drawn down in displeasure – his previous humor extinguished like a light – he fixed his mother with a stare.

"And what is this?" Dernhelm demanded.

Now she nearly laughed at his discomfiture.

"Only _they_ need to be so led for no drow or orc has _ever_ entered these lands."

Daelan merely shrugged and stoically held out his hands as non-acceptance had become all but a standard way of life for the huge half-orc but Nathyrra wore a face like a thunderhead.

"Mother-" Dernhelm began to argue, suspecting the outcome of her decree, but the drow cut him off.

"I'll be damned if I am going to be hooded and bound, magically or otherwise, like some common criminal!" Nathyrra spat suddenly as a moon elf moved toward her, silken cords outstretched.

"Nathyrra-"

"I won't. Not for an elf or anyone. You know that!"

Dernhelm sighed while Daelan and Tarlin looked at each other askance. The moon elves, however, reacted differently.

At her vehemence the elf stepped back a pace and glanced at Dernhelm's mother, who remained strangely silent. The manhandled elf, however, had no such reservations. Laughing suddenly, he fixed Nathyrra with a scrutinizing gaze. "_See_. Violence is inherent to this _breed_. Just as our elders told us," he said in a mocking voice.

Nathyrra shot him a look of black hatred and moved as if to throttle him with her bare hands, but Dernhelm put an arm across her chest. Startled, she affixed her friend with an indignant stare as well, but the look on his jaw, hard-edged as if he were grinding his teeth into powder, showed her that he was equally upset. The moon elves watched the interchange with interest. Buoyed by their friend's flippant remarks – and he exercising machismo to assuage his wounded pride – the elves relaxed, and now they too were smiling. Dernhelm's mother stayed at the edge of the torchlight, still saying nothing.

"Bind us _all_ then if you think she cannot be trusted," Dernhelm growled. "I will suffer the same as she and Daelan."

Though he had spoken for her, Tarlin nodded her agreement. While the concept of being at the mercy of "captors" was not pleasurable, she had actually quite grown to like her shunned counterparts.

Nathyrra responded with a smile for Dernhelm but kept a challenging stare on the elf who had insulted her.

In response, he laughed again.

"But then nothing will get done if we bring you into the city so hooded. It would be most unproductive to discourse if no one could see your face or hear your voice."

Silence settled through the camp as Dernhelm and his companions considered the meaning of the elf's words. After a moment, Dernhelm's eyes went wide.

"You mean that she and Daelan were to stay hooded and bound _the entire time_?" Dernhelm exploded.

"We are affording you and the human a great courtesy. No non-elves have been allowed into the city since its founding except for the Battle of the Vine Vale – and that as a last resort," he said. And then his voice took on a hard and acidic edge, his jocularity erased. "Certainly we would not give free-access to one of the corrupt, dark-loving _Illythiiri_. We wouldn't want to allow our city to be sullied by her gaze."

With each word, the red of anger in Nathyrra's face blossomed to a raging inferno, her muscles tensing as she prepared to throw herself at the elf heedless of her own safety. His elven companions needed no special magic to sense this, her intent plain as the night that closed in about the tiny gathering and they tensed in warning, hands hovering near weapons. What caught them completely off guard, however, was that it was not she but Dernhelm that made the first move. He could not restrain himself, and quicker than lightning he struck out at the speaker – the same elf he had previously assaulted – snatching him by the collar of his chainmail shirt and lifting the light elf off the ground for a second time. He did so unmindful of the arrows that appeared suddenly out of the darkness notched to the bows of nearly a dozen elves, elves whose presence had until recently only been inferred.

Taken completely aback, the elven speaker's companions drew longswords, but were caught between watching Nathyrra, who stood still and seething, and Dernhelm and their associate whose feet dangled above the ground by six inches. His mother remained silent and unmoving, the outline of her head the only thing that insinuated she was even considering the altercation.

Unable to stop himself, and driven by the need to repay the biting words of the moon elf, Dernhelm thought of the most insulting thing he could possibly say. "A culture that secrets itself from the rest of the world is either impotent or inbred."

The elf's eyes, already widened in shock at being roughly handled twice, bulged at the insult, and his mouth opened in a sound of apoplexy. His friends gripped their swords until their knuckles were white and the bows were drawn back as if to strike. Not wanting to add the potential hostility, Tarlin and Daelan stood as still as stone. Nathyrra's previous anger, however, melted into a wicked smile, and she stood there now shaking from the need to prevent herself from laughing.

As he saw the struggling elf warring with the exact words of his eventual retort, clawing futilely at his rock-solid arm and kicking at his legs, only then was Dernhelm able to calm himself so that he could consider the situation critically. And it was plainly evident they were all in great danger. He could feel the raw emotion of the moon elves battering against the wall of his demeanor like sledges.

Perhaps he had pushed the elves too far.

His temper was his primary failing and now that the words were out of his mouth, he nearly cursed himself. Though he could brook no such insults to his friends' character or race, he also could not let such _petty_ concerns impede their need for this magical artifact of the elves, a device that may very well guarantee the _safety_ of his friends… and his wife. Telling himself that they had precipitated the release of his ire was no consolation.

He huffed heavily.

The elf in his grasp finally drew a knife and Dernhelm knew that he had best try and diffuse the situation. Carefully setting the elf down, he backed away, hands upraised a goodly distance from his weapons. The elves, however, were not calmed by this gesture and continued their deadly stance. It was at this point that Dernhelm's mother intervened.

Stepping in to the firelight, Linüye Eluarshee looked older than her two-hundred and two years should allow. Barely middle-aged by elven standards, hard lines creased the edges of her eyes and dug furrows across her brow, as if she bore the strain of carrying the entire world on her slim shoulders. Her skin was pale, though coppery, and her face manifested green eyes, head capped with a bun of brown hair, cut short and arranged carefully around her ears. A heavy dress of good wool sporting a myriad of colored flowers covered her to the neck – undoubtedly stifling as the forest was too warm at this time of year for wool – but she seemed unaffected.

Putting out a restraining hand on the elf that Dernhelm had maltreated, she fixed him with a stern gaze. "Fanuilous, stay your anger. It is unbecoming of one of the Mountain Sentinels." The elf withdrew his arm holding the knife as if stung and his eyes became a chaos of anger and alarm. She let go of him slowly. "My son was only returning what he had received, an altercation which _you_ had initiated."

Fanuilous stood even further stunned, his mouth opened and closed soundlessly at her statement. _He_ had initiated it?

Turning to looking at the other elves, her eyes all but bypassing Dernhelm, she chided them all. "Remember that I speak for the Hill Elders in this. These four are not to be harmed."

At this Dernhelm's eyebrows rose nearly out of his scalp. His mother had clout with the leaders of Evereska? True, she was descended from royalty but only as a distant cousin to the Deeping Princess that had founded the dale of his home. He filed this thought away for later consideration as his mother finally faced him.

"That being said, the drow" – this said without a hit of unpropitiousness – "and the half-orc _cannot_ enter Evereska."

Dernhelm opened his mouth to protest, but his mother cut him off.

"That compromise is non-negotiable, also by decree of the Hill Elders, or else _none_ of you will enter."

"Then all this-" Daelan began, his bass voice rumbling his confusion at being conditionally granted admittance and then refused utterly.

"-was another test," Dernhelm replied and sighed heavily, shaking his head. He should have expected it, should have known that nothing could be that simple where his mother was concerned, but he had held out hope.

Nathyrra fixed him with a black look that she then directed at its deserving party: his mother.

In response, Linüye shook her head.

"This, the Hill Elders commanded along with the party of gnolls, solely to test the mettle of he who would come asking their assistance."

Daelan growled and Nathyrra looked in no way assuaged but the glance that Tarlin and Dernhelm shared spoke volumes. His mother made no mention of the verbal confrontation "initiated" by Fanuilous.

Linüye added, "Their decree is absolute."

Dernhelm's hands fell at his side at a loss, and he turned to regard his companions. Being separated from them was not difficult as they had been sundered by circumstance many times throughout the years, but being separated from them because of who and what they were stabbed at him like a cruel knife. Tarlin's eyes were down and her face held no smile because she had been permitted entrance. She felt the sting as did he, though her friendship with the others was still forming. Daelan huffed and turned away – not from Dernhelm, but from the looks of the elves. Though reprimanded, they bore looks of silent contentment that the "lesser beings" must stay outside. Nathyrra though, with her attitude of quicksilver, regarded the elves with a cool look that suggested she was envisioning colorful ways of causing them pain. And the looks she periodically threw Dernhelm suggested that she considered him at least partially responsible, even if it was for just bringing her along to this position of humiliation.

Dernhelm reached out to comfort her, but she tensed as if she wanted to flinch away. Sensing her distress – and wishing in vain for privacy – he said to her in front of everyone the only truthful thing he knew would put her at peace.

"We are outcasts you and I, Daelan as well and likely Tarlin, although she shan't admit it." Tarlin looked up but she said nothing, her eyes sad. Daelan cocked his ears, listening.

"We must stick together and not let ourselves be divided by such _petty_ discourse and erroneous information." He looked around at the elves in scorn and then back to the small drow. Nathyrra raised her eyes to meet his and tilted her head as if considering his words, but her face retained a level of hardness.

Then he added, "Remember. I am a child of _two_ races and yet am often accepted by neither."

That was for his mother.

At these last words, Nathyrra finally smiled.

Turning to the assembled elves but addressing his mother, he figured he would add a note that they deserved, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "She will stay out here so _she_ is not sullied by your myopic and ethnocentric city."

Fanuilous gave him a look bordering on hatred but said nothing.

They ascended another four hundred feet up the mountain, Tarlin and Dernhelm surrounded by a score of elves holding their weapons as if ready to use them at a moment's notice. His mother had Fanuilous take the lead, and Dernhelm was glad that the moon elf was in his line of sight.

"_That one could prove trouble,_" he thought.

A small clearing lit by a tiny, faintly glowing orb of blue light appeared abruptly to their left and the elves turned into it. Here, the side of the mountain was benched flat and inset with a small door made of what looked like mica, a thin, reflective sheet causing the glade to be filled with soft sparkles. The transition between the path that they had followed through the forest to this open space was so abrupt that Dernhelm had not even been aware of it and his acute ranger senses recoiled.

Through the door, Dernhelm glimpsed a figure about the size of an elf, clad in what looked like chainmail, but he could discern no other features. Fanuilous addressed this figure in a language clearly elvish in origin, but of a dialect Dernhelm had never before heard. After a moment, the mica sheet slid out of sight – or it vanished, he was not sure – and a pathway appeared directly into the side of the mountain. Fanuilous stepped through the passageway without turning to beckon Dernhelm.

Glancing at his mother he recoiled again. Of the elves, she was the only one left in the clearing. He had heard none of the guards leave. His hackles rose at the thought of the magic that infused this place, disrupting his senses.

His mother gestured for him to follow, but he did so cautiously with a signal to Tarlin to do likewise.

The passageway was elf-height, causing Dernhelm to stoop slightly, but was wide enough that he passed in relative comfort. Its walls were not merely cut into the stone of the hill as he had anticipated but were laid blocks nearly two-foot square, engraved with various mythological beasts and elven legends, decorated with precious stones and gems. He surmised this though most were foreign to him, only the Lay of Lavinia commanding his attention, her hands picked out with crystals of pearlescent diaspore as she called forth silver vines in an effort to deny passage to the demons that sought to destroy forest home of Cormanthyr. The elf that he had observed through the mica was nowhere in sight.

For about five hundred feet they followed Fanuilous down the passageway, lit periodically by glowing orbs nearly a foot in diameter, shining without a hint of flicker normally associated with candles or torches.

Suddenly the cavern bent to the right and Fanuilous disappeared from view. Dernhelm, not wanting to be caught unawares advanced forward and cautiously peered around the bend. The passageway was empty save for more of the orbs and seemed to stretch on unbroken to the limits of his vision. Dernhelm's brow lowered as he sensed a trap; the moon elf could not possibly be so fast as to be lost from view down a straight passageway. After several moments scanning the hall for side tunnels, Dernhelm stepped out into the corridor, Tarlin right at his heels, his hand on Enserric.

His fears immediately proved unwarranted. When his feet were firmly in the new corridor, he found himself outdoors on the eastern side of the mountains they had climbed, under the welkin of heaven illuminated by stars innumerable.

"What?" he said in disbelief. The passageway could not possibly be long enough to have passed through the mountain in so short a distance. Tarlin, thinking the same thing, stumbled in to him as she turned in bewilderment.

"It's elven magic," Dernhelm's mother said as she appeared slowly before them as from thin air. One moment they were looking at the bare rock of the mountain and the next, the middle aged elf was there. And what was worse, she must have followed them down the passage and Dernhelm had not even heard her. He found himself starting to hate this place.

"The elves built the mountain passage on the impossible chance someone could find the glade pass, beat past the Mountain Sentinels, and actually break through into Evereska. When they come out the other side, they cannot help but be bewildered, and into the midst of them, the elves strike."

Regarding them critically, at last she smiled, a genuine, heartfelt grin.

"It took me several times passing through the gate to be used to it." Then she said almost conspiratorially. "I kept bumping into things on my way out."

Dernhelm shook his head in amazement. This was his mother, happily expressing her unease, when moments before she had worn the mantle of witch?

He cast about for something tangible to grab hold of.

Tarlin evinced wonder and a childlike innocence at their surroundings, her face looking startled at everything upon which her eyes fell. Her lack of caution was so out of sorts with her normal dour countenance that he found himself wanting to smile even as part of his brain attempted to reevaluate his initial views of Evereska.

Turning a little more, however, he quickly regained his sour mood. Fanuilous was standing there wearing a small smile at Dernhelm's discomfiture. The smile failed to reach his eyes.

The path down from the mountain was wide – almost as if well-traveled – and easy to navigate. The trees here were short and far apart, and they walked along short-cropped grass, springy beneath their feet. The same nutty aroma pervaded the air, but this time it added a refreshing quality that gave bounce back to their steps and even seemed to ease Tarlin's leg. She walked upon it down from the mountain without a hint of complaint.

Rounding a bend, like a gentle switchback, the whole of the city of Evereska opened up before them and Dernhelm stopped in shock. About five-hundred feet below them the hillsides were terraced with every manner of agricultural food-crop – grapevines, corn, potatoes, apples, oranges – stretching in a thousand-foot-wide ring around the interior circumference of the guardian mountains. Below this lay a meadow of tall grass blowing in the wind, illuminated by an impossible light as every color of the rainbow was reflected from it in soft sparkles that seemed to float about on a breeze like so many will-o-the-wisps. At the base of the mountains were twelve hills surrounding a gentle bowl, a plethora of tall spires connected by unbelievably thin, arched walkways adorning every hill and the bowl itself.

"It's beautiful," Tarlin said breathlessly. Any discomfort she may have felt seemed to melt away at the thought of being in that city.

"And even to look upon it has been a privilege afforded to less than one score of those not full elves," Fanuilous said in a tone that was both proud, and suggesting that if he was given sway, Dernhelm and Tarlin would not be of those so honored.

Dernhelm took the compliment for what it was.

The walk down was the most enjoyable thing Dernhelm had ever experienced outside of the company of his wife. Tarlin made it with ease, and even Dernhelm's mother – never given to walking long distances – almost bounced down the path.

The boundary between the terraces and the meadow was a low wall of black stone possessing crystals of silver that flashed an iridescent blue depending upon the angle at which you viewed them. Inset in the wall was a simple, unadorned gate like one for admitting sheep, and Fanuilous led them through it without hesitation.

The meadow grasses were about waist high and Dernhelm could not help but run his hands through their swaying forms. As he did so, the light that seemed to sparkle everywhere from them changed in response, but in ways that were physically impossible to explain. The reflected motes of light seemed to have a life of their own, literally alighting on some blades even as they lifted from others. It was only then, considering this strange sight, when he tried to catch one as one does when a child, that Dernhelm realized they _were_ alive.

Tarlin engaged in the wonder of the sight with him, and laughed, truly and heartily, her voice giving a sound akin to music. Fanuilous and his mother were unmoved, sensing nothing out of the ordinary, but Dernhelm regarded her with wonder at this change. He said nothing, however, merely observing her slyly as they let the otherworldly peace slide over them, fearing to interrupt her happiness.

After a moment, Dernhelm's mother spoke. "While the Hill Elders provided time for you to take in the sights of this land as all must do to even begin to understand it, they still set us a timetable upon which to meet them and we must pick up the pace so that we are not late."

Dernhelm was surprised. "We are to meet them this morning without sleep and rest from our journey?" He was not tired and could go several days if need be, but protocol usually required such luxuries, and he was surprised by the lack of it.

"They know that time is essential, and they would speed you on your journey," was the reply.

Dernhelm nodded but he could not help but think, "_The faster to get us out of here as well._"

The path through the meadow was too short for Dernhelm's tastes, but as he focused on the city all thoughts of the tiny fireflies were banished from his head. The spires connected by delicate arched bridges rose more than three hundred feet above the bottom of the bowl and were made out of every imaginable stone – reddish-pink granite glowing almost ruddy in the abundant starlight, variegated marble with more splashes of color than a harem in Calimport, even a black glassy spire that sat by itself beyond the edges of the city that Dernhelm would swear was pure obsidian.

The colors did not clash in any way, but actually seemed to accentuate each other, the careful planning necessary for a city of this size mind-boggling. The city was easily twin in area to Neverwinter, which had been built in hodge-podge fashion for over two-hundred years, and this city had been in existence for over ten-thousand.

What really drew his attention were the people, or, at least how they moved. Even at this early hour elves were up and about, crossing the walkways between spires upon some or another task. It seemed that no doors were at ground level, but it mattered not, for the elves were walking straight up the sides of the spires – in some cases upside down where ledges jutted – as calmly as they would on the path from the mountains! Surely some powerful magic was at work.

This close to the city, however, Fanuilous did not wait for them to gawk, picking his way quickly to their appointed meeting as if now suddenly ready to be rid of them. Dernhelm was all too quick to oblige and hurried after the elf even as he gawked at the sights overhead. Tarlin strode in lockstep with him, not wanting to be left behind. He was glad that the traffic was high above them as their upturned heads and wide eyes would have resulted in many unexpected collisions at ground level. Turning to the left down a well-tended grass path, Fanuilous led them to a tower, wider and more imposing than all that they had seen, formed out of what appeared to be a seamless piece of quartz amethyst, light penetrating through the extreme edges of the structure unhindered but lost amongst the deep purple of the interior.

Stepping suddenly off the ground, Fanuilous strode straight up the wall of the tower. After a moment he stopped, realizing that they had yet to follow and beckoned them with a look of exasperation mixed with condescension at those unenlightened in the ways of travel in his elven home.

Suppressing all disbelief, Dernhelm lifted his foot and placed it on the sheer wall of the tower but found no effect of gravity wanting to pull it off. Then, quickly so as not to allow himself time to wrestle with the impossibility of the action nor to give Fanuilous more pleasure at his unease, he lifted the other foot and placed it on the tower face. His haste at doing so belied his feigned confidence as he stumbled, but he still maintained his footing out of a sheer force of will as well as the magic. Reaching back, he grabbed Tarlin's hand and helped her up – or sideways – and soon they were walking uncomfortably upward even as their bodies were parallel to the ground. Linüye fell into step beside them, at ease as if out for a ten-day stroll.

Two-hundred feet and more they climbed, becoming level with many of the archways between buildings, when finally they reached the opening, a small recess about five feet deep. Thankfully, no lip of stone jutted outward to demarcate the entrance and thus turn their world on its head. Fanuilous stepped up and disappeared from view. Dernhelm and Tarlin were only too quick to join him. While the climb was without incident, the sense of vertigo creeping up on them was intense, and they were more than happy to have normally-oriented ground again beneath their feet.

At the rear of the opening was a round portal, bisected in two with doors flung wide, beckoning them to the interior. Dernhelm, gathering some of his courage which seemed to have leached out of him on the upward climb, entered without hesitation, stepping into a spacious chamber decorated on every wall with tapestries of the finest silk. Thread-of-gold and silver – and even what looked like thread-of-_platinum_ – picked out more legendary scenes in vast array. Beside him Tarlin goggled. But, it was not the hangings that drew his attention.

Through a doorway at the far side of the chamber he could see a vast, well-lit hall too big to possibly fit inside the tower in which he was standing.

And for a moment he hesitated.

"Just whom will I be meeting?" he wondered as his brain estimated the size of the room from what he could see. But the moment of disquiet was short-lived as he shook the thought away. It didn't matter if there were two Hill Elders or a thousand, he reminded himself. He had a job to do.

Fanuilous had taken a position to the right of the entrance, and with a face like sour grapes, he gestured for Dernhelm and Tarlin to pass, an unhappy door warden. Tarlin was too awed to pay him any attention; Dernhelm looked ahead with determination.

A slight pressure on his back turned out to be his mother's hand, propelling him forward, but he needed no encouragement. Resolutely stepping into the hall onto tiles of pure silver and gold, he took in his surroundings. The hall was illuminated from above by giant crystals of pure quartz glowing seemingly with their own inner fire. Around the confines of the hall sat vast galleries, filled to bursting with regally dressed elves – presumably the whole city aside from those few he had seen walking outside – and amidst them, projecting from the walls along thin walkways and surrounded by low railings, sat five chairs.

In the two chairs to his right sat moon elves, a male and female with silver-white hair adorned with crowns of lapis lazuli. To his left two female sun elves, golden hair spilling over their bronze-skinned shoulders in waves, sporting crowns of emeralds. And in the chair in the center of the gallery, slightly higher than the others and projecting more, sat a male sun elf, his black hair streaked with white belying his age. His golden eyes were sharp and bright and atop his head was a crown of pure alabaster set with a single marquise-cut ruby.

As Dernhelm and Tarlin stepped into the room, a hush seemed to fall over the already silent elves and all eyes went wide to scrutinize them. The five elves seated in the chairs stood. Running his hands unconsciously through the mop of his hair, Dernhelm tried his best to seem cool and confident, looking around at the assembled and fixing each standing figure in turn with a critical look. He had certainly not anticipated or even _estimated_ such a large and formal reception, but he also could not afford to appear out of sorts.

As the scrutinization carried on for several moments, Dernhelm looked about while hiding his discomfiture. His mother sat in the first row of the galleries on the left behind the sun elf ladies, but her face bore a neutral expression. Tarlin, on the other hand, appeared whiter than usual, her hands clasped like vices around her belt, thumbs tucked behind. No help there.

Was he supposed to say something? Not knowing protocol, he decided a formal greeting couldn't hurt and he opened his mouth to speak.

But someone beat him to it.

"Dernhelm Arcorthon-Eluarshee, son of Linüye Cyndar Eluarshee of the line of the Imryll of Cormanthyr and Harmon Marron Arcorthon of the Dales." The elf with the alabaster crown said it in a flat voice, strong and full of power, yet without a single change of tone.

Not knowing what else to do, Dernhelm inclined his head. This seemed to satisfy him because the elf turned his attention to Dernhelm's human companion.

"Tarlin Damsel, daughter of Meredith Acryl and Jonathan Damsel of Direfell."

To his right, Tarlin's eyes widened as if in alarm and her already tight stance at being surrounded by such nobility became rock-solid, causing her to all but quiver. Dernhelm's ears pricked in response both to the elf lord's words as to her reaction.

"_Damsel? That doesn't sound right."_ Dernhelm thought, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "_Didn't Nasher introduce her as-"_

The elf's voice, however, cut through his thoughts.

"You have both been granted entrance to Dinerondel, home of the elves in Faerûn, Evereska in your tongue. Your quest is to find an object of power that could banish the demon Jangdwynyd from this plane."

As a matter-of-fact pronouncement none could have done better. This clearly was to be a short meeting.

"_Good,_" Dernhelm thought. "_I like someone who is direct._"

But then the crowned elf continued.

"This evil _you_ have loosed upon the land," he said, pointing at Dernhelm. "And it is therefore only fitting that _you_ bind it up again." Again atonal, but with a hint of anger.

As the elf spoke, Dernhelm's brows drew down at the accusation and he harrumphed loudly. Were they testing his temper yet again? Part of his mind whispered a warning, but that had been a cheap shot.

"I know that _this time_ the fault lies with me," he said suddenly, his face defiant. "Even though the original culprit was Karsus of Netheril. But it was only because of my attempts to _save_ this region from the artifacts of Netheril that I was even involved with this creature."

Hushed conversation bubbled forth in the galleries of the elves, for likely none had ever spoken so curtly, but the speaker stopped it with an upraised hand. Linüye shook her head, but Dernhelm didn't know if it was in sympathy or disappointment, and at that moment, he didn't care.

"True," the elf said unremorsefully. And then he added: "But had you stayed in the Plane of Shadow, the terror would never have reached this world."

At this, shock lit his mother's face.

Dernhelm fared little better.

Eyes practically squinting in anger, he clenched his fists until they hurt. It took everything in his power not to say something he would undoubtedly regret, or at least, hurt his cause. Tarlin was similarly approaching apoplexy, but she too managed to hold her tongue. Quiet murmurs arose among the elves in the gallery, but this time the elf lord did nothing to stop it.

After a moment he continued, any hint of anger replaced by that atonality.

"The artifact you seek does indeed exist here, but it is up to you to recover it. At the founding of this land, the first elves fashioned a device to act as a last line of defense should all other protections fail. Its ability is to temporarily cause the cessation of magic over a large region – all devices are rendered useless, all spells fail, all creatures born of magic die."

The sounds from around him suggested the elves were physically repulsed at the speaker's words; even the speaker himself paled as he spoke. For creatures that had spent their entire lives with magic, who used it for daily tasks menial and otherwise, such an effect would surely make them uncomfortable.

"This creature comes into Faerûn through a doorway of magic for which the use of this device would close it."

Dernhelm didn't even ask how the elf knew of all this, how the elves knew who he was or that he was even coming so that they would send Linüye to meet him. From the moment he had seen his mother, who should be across the sea in Evermeet, he had ceased to question the sheer ridiculousness of the entire affair.

Including how atonal, matter-of-fact, and downright rude the head of the Hill Elders – for without an introduction that is who Dernhelm had to assume him to be – was in his declarations.

"The device is located below the black Tower of Vilshire. Remove it from its pedestal manually, for magic will not work while upon it the device rests, and carry its power with you. It will not harm you in transit but you may only use it once, for the use will destroy it."

Tarlin glanced at Dernhelm as if to say, "Why can't they just _give_ it to us?"

Bowing low, his rage under control and replaced by an icy calm, he addressed the speaker. "We thank you for this opportunity to save this land. We will go and recover the artifact to use against Jangdwynyd, since we do not fear to go where magic cannot exist."

Caught completely off guard by Dernhelm's comment, the elf lord's mouth opened angrily as if he would offer a scathing retort, but instead, he thrust his hand above his head and turned it in a small circle.

Dernhelm and Tarlin found themselves standing in the open night air again, directly in front of the obsidian tower.

"Now _that_ is what I call a dismissal," Dernhelm said after his surprise wore off. He allowed himself a small smile. That _had_ felt good.

Tarlin on the other hand appeared out of sorts. Her eyes darted about with a hint of nervousness.

Dernhelm found that understandable considering the whirlwind tour they had just made of the city of Evereska and he figured he would put her at ease by talking. That was what he was good it.

"It was more than a little justified considering what I said, no matter how true it was."

Tarlin fixed him with a raised eyebrow, her eyes locking with his.

"How do you mean?"

"They are afraid, you know?"

"Who? The elves?" she said incredulously considering the tremendous power they had demonstrated since their arrival.

He nodded. "And that is why they need us – the _only_ reason they need us," he replied.

"You mean they are too afraid to even walk into the room with this anti-magic thingy that they actually allowed outsiders into Evereska?" She was astonished.

"Think about it. For ten-thousand years and more these elves have lived here surrounded by magic. They have become dependent on it; it comforts them, and as surprising as it sounds, it as much a part of them as their own bodies. Even if the effect was temporary and the need immensely great, they are paralyzed with the fear that a temporary loss may become permanent, that somehow they may forever lose the ability to sense its power. Even though in the back of their minds they are concerned that Jangdwynyd may kill them."

"But that's irrational!"

"Haven't you seen drug addicts in the cities you have been through?"

Tarlin nodded.

"Many of them are gone beyond help, but many realize that what they do is detrimental and maybe even fatal to their bodies, and yet they cannot break free of the fear of what life would be like without it."

"So what you said was…"

"Like rubbing salt into an open wound."

"You seem to have a habit of that." She smiled mirthlessly.

Dernhelm took a small bow.

It was then that he noticed that their magical accoutrements were missing. In their place were simple, unadorned arms and armor – of fine elven make admittedly – but completely non-magical. Tarlin must have noticed it too because she began to cast about worriedly.

"Where is all our gear?" Tarlin asked with a hint of fear.

"Undoubtedly stored for safe-keeping. I would not worry. Just as we could not conceive of killing a child I would expect the elves would perceive it for destroying a thing formed of magic."

Her concerned look suggested she was not at all convinced by his words, but she seemed to force herself to relax anyway.

He figured a joke was in order.

"The real question is _how_ did they take it?" he chuckled. Her cheeks reddened a bit as she considered the short list of possibilities, but she still seemed a bit nervous. He added: "That is some spell!" and patted his hips.

After a moment, another humorous thought struck him.

"I fear for anyone stuck with Enserric during our time apart. He _can _be trying."

At that, Tarlin laughed slightly.

"You mean someone just _might_ destroy him out of pure necessity?"

"Either that or we better hope that the magic prevents the elves from jumping to their deaths. This city could be devoid of life in just a few short hours."

The door to the black tower was actually located at ground level. Maybe even the thought of climbing over the surface of this tower was outside of the zone of comfort for the device's creators, or maybe they simply fashioned it in such a way to provide easier access to the device in the depths below should the need arise. The doorway was slightly recessed into the glassy wall, and when Dernhelm approached it, it swung open easily. Behind it was a small chamber about thirty feet in diameter, with a spiral staircase downward set into the center of the floor. The room was well-tended and lights – seemingly flameless – hung from chains in the ceiling. It seemed as if this room had been prepared especially for their visit. With the power of the elven magic, however, this room could easily have been left in this state for thousands of years.

On the opposite end of the room were two padded chairs surrounding a small table, soft-looking without being opulent, just simple and utilitarian. Eying the furniture with a raised eyebrow, Dernhelm stepped fully into the room followed by Tarlin.

The staircase disappeared from view but they could see light coming from the depths as if more glowing orbs lit the way downward. Dernhelm stepped forward to lead the way, but Tarlin grabbed his arm. His left eyebrow rose in question at being suddenly manhandled.

"No caution?" Tarlin asked calmly.

Dernhelm smiled.

"Why? What could possibly go wrong?" he chuckled, and started down the stairwell without a backward glance.

Tarlin had no choice but to follow with an exasperated sigh.

The stairway wound into the earth for what Dernhelm figured was several hundred feet before leveling off. The shaft was faced with a black, smooth rock, but of a type that was not glassy like the tower exterior. Tiny holes penetrated its surface at random intervals, like the remains of trapped bubbles, but they were too small to really feel unless intentionally picking at them.

A small open space lay at the foot of the stairs, still illuminated by the glowing orbs, and a tunnel stretched off in front of them. Unable to keep his bearings over so many turns, he had no way of knowing that the tunnel stretched off away from the city, but he surmised correctly that at least it probably wouldn't be heading beneath the city's heart.

Saying nothing, they walked on for nearly a quarter mile in a straight line, with not a single side passage to give them pause. Eventually the tunnel ended at a small doorway and Dernhelm bent close to it, listening. Nothing echoed from whatever lay on the other side and they cautiously opened the door. They perceived a vast cavern. Its roof was lit by glowing orbs hanging from chains high above, but their light was insufficient to reach to the floor. This didn't matter, however, because the glowing orb of blue standing on the pillar of obsidian gave forth a light that was reflected by its glassy base, casting about a myriad of rainbow colors.

This provided enough illumination at floor level to reveal the entire confines of the cavern, including the giant, ragged hole in the far wall.

And the enormous, six-legged, spider-like demon with an armored body the size of a destrier and legs that spanned more than a dozen feet.

For a second, Dernhelm stood there stunned.

He stood there until Tarlin called out of sheer exasperation, "Why would they send us down here to obtain an item that would save them and then have it guarded by _that_?" and the monster turned to regard them.

Cursing loudly, Dernhelm grabbed the greatsword which the elves had provided him, and ran to his left away from the door, all the while testing its weight. He didn't even look behind him to see Tarlin's reaction, but sought to draw the creature after him.

His ruse worked and with a speed that belied its bulk, it gave chase, scurrying along the ground like a spider many hundreds of times smaller, its compound eyes following his every move. Turning suddenly into a tumble, he came up right before it, and struck out at the nearest leg. Not expecting something so small to advance upon it, the creature was caught off guard and his blade bit deep into its flesh. Roaring back in pain, it lashed out at Dernhelm, one of its other legs catching him in the chest, sending him flying.

Dernhelm managed to hold on to his sword and rolled even as he hit the ground to deflect most of the impact. He was back on his feet in moments even as the creature came upon him, its mandibles open as it tried to bite him. Assuming that the advance would not work a second time, he turned to the side and lunged upward, scoring the bottom of the left mandible even as they passed overhead. A second thrust opened a cut along the creature's jaw line eliciting another roar and a spray of goo.

And then he felt the creature shudder as Tarlin struck at it from behind, her sword lodging in a gap in part of its chitinous armor. Caught now between two adversaries, the beast skittered backwards, and its sudden movement tore Tarlin's sword from her grasp.

And then the worst thing happened.

Neither of them had time to react as they heard the noise, for they knew not its source nor its intent, but a sticky web was emitted from the mouth of the creature and encased Tarlin completely. It caught Dernhelm on his right side, trapping his sword arm and leg.

They couldn't have been more effectively immobilized and the creature took advantage of it. Two giant claws, which the beast had kept hidden under its jaws, were extended, and it lunged at Dernhelm, the only one that it still considered a threat. The pincers clamped down on his armor even as his sought to free himself with his left hand, tearing frantically at the web.

The claws quickly moved over his armor until one of them caught an edge to the plate-and-mail. Pinching the armor, the creature rocked back and forth, ripping the armor from Dernhelm even as he was thrown about like a rag doll.

Seeing his imminent peril, Tarlin struggled for all she was worth against the sticky web. But it didn't budge. Cursing and swearing she wrenched her body about but it seemed to only further entangle her, trapping her by the bonds of her own adrenaline. And what was worse, it stuck her head so that she was forced to watch the ensuing nightmare.

The creature had drawn Dernhelm close to its mouth as if ready to ingest him, or inject him with some horrible poison. Tarlin screamed, a cry of utter helplessness that momentarily drew the creature's attention.

And with that, Dernhelm wrenched an arm free and slugged the creature in the side of its head with all his might. It glanced harmlessly off the creature's armor but it startled the creature enough to drop him.

Dernhelm hit the ground with a thud, all but knocking the wind from him, but he was on his feet in a moment, the sheer terror of their predicament infusing his body with energy. Even the webbing did little to slow him down as he retrieved his sword; the creature had scattered enough of it in its throes that he needed only a little caution so as not to trip.

Because of the creature's size and speed and because Tarlin was trapped, Dernhelm had few options. At that moment, however, he could think of nothing else but a bull rush. Lowering his shoulder even as he extended his sword arm, he ran headlong at the creature's legs hoping to cause the most damage. The creature was caught completely off guard. He felt his sword bite deep into one of the creature's appendages and then the appalling feeling of striking something large and furry. The creature buckled under the unexpected assault and collapsed on that side, and Dernhelm had mere moments to roll out of the way before the creature crushed him with its bulk.

It was, however, not quite finished.

Feeling trapped itself, it pushed upward with effort but surprising speed, and caught a startled Dernhelm on his side, flinging him toward the walls. This time Dernhelm had no fancy maneuver and struck hard, dropping his sword. He lay there panting for several moments, his head swimming. With an effort, he regained his feet shakily and slowly and tried to get his bearings. Multiple creatures appeared and disappeared in his vision along with a million black speckles and he shook his head to clear it. This caused him to nearly collapse with pain: at least two _other_ ribs felt broken.

When at last he saw the creature, he realized it was not coming for him.

Changing tactics, the wounded creature lumbered at a terror-stricken Tarlin held fast in a deformable prison. Its claws extended even as it loped as if it planned to scoop her up, jagged pincers undoubtedly capable of crushing the life from her with ease. Dernhelm had no idea how to prevent that from happening. The thing was almost too overpowering to consider and he had none of the magical accoutrements that could give him the edge.

And then Tarlin began to sob.

The sound shocked him out of his morbid revelry. Forcing aside the tantalizing glow of the orb that now lay undefended, he swept up his sword and charged at the thing one last time, intending to strike at the creature's rear legs. Every step was an effort, bringing white fire into his chest.

But the creature was not unprepared, spinning quickly to catch the blow on its claws. Advancing suddenly on the small half-elf, Dernhelm stumbled and nearly went down, getting his feet under him at the last possible moment. And then the claws clamped around his chest sending lances of blinding pain throughout his body. He gasped and nearly passed out.

As the mandibles lunged forward with a clack of finality, Dernhelm braced his sword against his hip letting the creature's momentum drive the weapon into the flesh of its descending open mouth. The incision brought forth an ear-piercing scream turned to a muted burble and a deluge of horrible liquid that coated Dernhelm's armor.

Somehow, the ichor missed Dernhelm's exposed skin, which was for the best as it instantly began to dissolve the metal casing about him. He had little time to absorb the sight of his sword disappearing in its mouth with a wisp of smoke, nor the opportune way that the creature's claws released him as it died, because his hands and mind were frantically attuned to tearing the burning material from him.

Scratching desperately at his once-helpful covering, his mind instantly filled with pain intense and sudden, all borne by the flesh of his palms. The same liquid which was dissolving the leather and metal caused his hands to smoke, filling the cavern with the smell of burning flesh. He forced himself to work on against the incredible pain, and at last he was able to free himself from the armor which all but sloughed off of him into a pile. Falling to his knees, he began to scrub his hands vigorously on the rock floor, hoping that he might tear off the skin before it did more permanent damage.

Several moments later, he could tell that the effect of the liquid had dissipated, for the smell of burning flesh was replaced by an even fouler smell as the ichor had turned into congealed goo. His hands, however, still bore the effects of the fetid fluid, the skin swollen, torn, and incredibly painful.

Tarlin regarded him with a look of intense sorrow and embarrassment.

They were a ragged duo that finally came forth from the deep, staggering out from the obsidian tower into the full light of day, Dernhelm supported on Tarlin's right arm, even as she held the blue orb under her left. Dernhelm's mother was there, as were the five Hill Elders, Fanuilous, and a host of other elves, stretching as far as the eye could see back into the city, even as they kept their distance from the tower.

Dernhelm took one look around at them, smiled triumphantly, and then succumbed to the pain into the blackness of unconsciousness.


	14. Chapter XIII: What Hurts the Most

**Chapter XIII: What Hurts the Most**

When he opened his eyes, Dernhelm found himself on his back in a soft bed, surrounded by a calming yellow light. Fluffy pillows felt good behind his head and he reached up to adjust them. The mistake was soon realized as the pain in his hands brought the memories of the recent past crashing to the fore of his mind. Nearly gasping in shock, he sat up and cast about the room.

The small chamber was empty, aside from one chair occupied by a red-eyed Tarlin.

"I wish for just once that I wouldn't have to come back to consciousness only to find myself in a bed with people looking at me disquietly." He meant it as a piece of humor to act as a diversion to the pain, but it seemed to only make Tarlin's expression turn more miserable.

"Does anyone know what that thing was?" he asked, again trying to focus both their attentions on something else. He had no idea what was making her act this way but all he could see was the stalwart human he had come to know reduced to gibbering terror.

"A Bebilith," she said at last, her voice as flat as that of the principal Hill Elder. He could tell she was hiding her emotions with a titanic effort. "It is a creature from the Abyss."

Dernhelm pursed his lips thoughtfully. "And it was here also to stop us…

"It must have dug its way under the city into an area that it knew the elves could not even be forced to go… so we can assume the Enemy knows we are-"

Tarlin cut him off. "It had built a lair and had nothing to do with us or the Enemy."

"But how can you be sure?"

"The elves investigated the tunnel after we emerged looking like we had been through a holocaust."

At her statement that the elves had actually entered the Tower of Vilshire, his eyebrows rose into his hairline, but she nodded as if reading his thoughts.

"Concerned by the possibility that something may have found an entrance into the city, and calmed to a certain degree that the artifact was not currently active, the Hill Elders ordered a large number of soldiers to investigate, led by our friend Fanuilous. They discovered the creature's lair in the hole we saw and it was filled with bones of nearly every creature imaginable. It had the air of having been there a long time."

"And the elves didn't know about it?"

"How could they? You said yourself that the tower hadn't been entered in ten thousand years. They had lulled themselves into the false security that everything was as it has always been. They will think differently now."

Dernhelm looked down at his hands. They were still red and extremely painful, but did not look as disfigured as they had when first he had spied them in the underground 'tomb.' The elves must have begun to heal them.

As if reading his thoughts, Tarlin reached out and placed a hand on his upturned forearm.

"Why did you protect me?" she asked suddenly, her voice soft and gentle.

"What? Why wouldn't I?" he said, startled.

"You could have taken the artifact and left me there."

"But… I wouldn't _do_ that and you _know_ it."

"Why? Had you died down there, then many more would have died, friends and loved ones, including your wife. Why would you risk that to save me?"

"It is not a question of who lives and who dies; it's a question of what is right. How could I claim to be on a journey to save lives if I let those I can help fall along the way? I would be saying your life wasn't important in favor of others."

She was silent for a moment considering his words, but at last she spoke, her voice sad, her emotional restraint loosened.

"So you did it because it was the right thing to do?"

"Well, yes," he said. "Er, no. I… did it because you are my friend."

"Your friend? After the way I have treated you?"

"Just because we don't see eye to eye… and you have been trying enough at times that I would just assume slap you until your head spun around," he tried a roguish grin, but it failed against the anguish in her eyes. "I still value you and depend on you.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"I need to understand your motives…"

"Why? Can't you understand that sometimes people just do things out of friendship, whether at the cost of financial gain, or the respect of their 'peers,' or even at the cost of their own life? You don't need a reason to help people."

"Don't people sometimes do it because they feel they need to make up for times when they were unable to protect people in their past?"

He was shocked.

"You think I saved you out of _guilt_?"

She paused for a long moment as if deciding the next words to say but then she pushed ahead.

"You weren't able to protect your wife."

He took in a long breath at her prognosis and then his brows drew down in disapproval.

"There was no way I could protect her. I can't be with her at all times, nor would I want to be, though I love her more than anything. She needs her space to exist as a person even as we depend on each other. To be glued to each other's side would be codependency… and even then, injury… or even death happens."

He swallowed hard at the thought, and forced himself to not consider that possibility… at least for now.

Tarlin turned away as he spoke, a ragged sigh escaping her lips as the tears seemed to well up inside of her. Heedless of the pain, Dernhelm reached out and placed a hand on her arm. She flinched at the contact but did not completely pull away.

"What is it with you?" Dernhelm asked at last.

Still she said nothing and kept her face turned away from him. He let his hand fall after a moment and just sat there considering the suddenly small human at his bedside.

Finally, she looked at him with a fierce expression.

"I should have been able to stop him."

"What? The Bebilith? It was nearly more than _both_ of us could handle!"

"But what good am I if I can't protect _myself_ let alone anyone else?"

"You are as good as you can possibly be, but you can't be perfect!"

"And why not? It seems you are closer to it than I!"

"Perfection?!" he was taken aback. "Since when did you get such a crazy notion that I was perfect?!"

"You must be since you were able to destroy the creature."

"Did you ever think that was sheer luck?"

"Now you are deliberately mocking me!"

"How?"

"I thought you were weak when I saw the terror in your eyes when you learned the Enemy had returned and again when your wife lay injured and you were so distraught, but somehow these very things gave you strength!"

"You're crazy!"

"Am I?" she was now openly sobbing, her hands balled into fists even as she yelled at him. "It is either that, or you are just preternaturally strong and nothing truly effects you." The she added in a low voice, almost silent "Else, I would be strong too."

Suddenly, it all made sense. "Is that why you are doing this? Striving so hard? _Guilt?_ From _what_?"

Her fingers still clenched into fists, she moved to turn away again, but Dernhelm caught the side of her face with his hands, oblivious to the sudden pain.

"Who couldn't you save?"

For a long moment, she just sat there, the words hanging in the air between them like a guillotine. The look she gave him was of a broken heart, one that he felt must have been ripped out and trampled upon. Her eyes and cheeks glistened with tears but she was oblivious, just staring full into his eyes, full into the days of her past. He was almost afraid she wouldn't answer.

"When I was a child, about five years in age," she began in a voice that was almost too low to be heard even by his acute hearing. "Orcs came to my home in Direfell. They attacked the town without mercy… My father was the town mayor and he organized a resistance, hoping that he could hold on just long enough until the militia came from Phlan. I… watched them chop off his head," she stifled a cry but forced herself to continue on. "And then they raped and killed my mother. They didn't know I was hiding in the closet." At this, a single sob escaped her throat before she could stop it.

Dernhelm again reached out and squeezed her hand. This time, she made no move to pull away. He was taken aback at her honesty and the brutality of the crimes this girl had witnessed as a child. A picture started to take shape in his mind.

"I was a Damsel then, as you heard. Kind of a fitting name, don't you think?" she laughed mirthlessly, her eyes still wet. He said nothing.

"Dern Misonere, a member of the Phlanian guard took me in and raised me as his own. He trained me to be a soldier."

Dernhelm couldn't help but sigh. He thought he could see where this was going and why she persisted with the line of morbid questioning.

"And you blamed yourself for the death of your parents ever since, yes?"

Looking at him fiercely, she suddenly reached down and grabbed his hand. It was intended to take from him a measure of support borne of friendship, but instead it only elicited an oath of pain. She seemingly was oblivious to this.

"I should have been able to save them!"

"You were five! What could you have done?"

"I could have died with them at least."

"What, and saved yourself the pain of living with your apparent failure?"

"It _was_ my failure!"

"And now you have spent your entire life trying to make up for it!"

"Yes!" she shouted, and then clamped her hand over her mouth at what she had just said. He could believe that this was the first time she had made this revelation to another living soul; perhaps it was the first time she had made it even to herself. The look on her face though was as one that wanted to curl up in a corner and die.

"Look," he said, in an attempt to share in her pain as well as divert her attention. "We are not so different, you and I."

He had never seen a face that so clearly said "You are a liar." The hurt on it was so real, she must have believed he was trying to make light of her pain, or tell her some tale just to calm her.

"I am going to tell you a story and then you will understand me and _my_ motivation. It is not so different from your own."

She said nothing and did not even so much as nod in acquiescence, but he forged on anyway.

"I was born in the Deepingdale many years ago to parentage of which you have heard. It was an odd match, even for the welcoming, cultural melting pot, a haven for half-breeds." He said it without any sarcasm.

"My mother was technically descended from royalty and even though she was so far removed from the main line as to have no hope of serving in any hereditary capacity outside of housewife, the elves, steeped in history and tradition, still regarded her with some measure of respect as to one of noble-birth.

"My father was a woodcutter from the Dales, who, over time, rose to prominence by successfully defending the city from the drow on several occasions. It was only this that gave him any standing in the eyes of the elves, and after a series of long and sometimes bitter arguments, Linüye's parents allowed her to wed.

"My father raised me to be a ranger – a noble profession in the Dales. I traveled with my father far and wide as we made war against the drow, aiding the elves in Cormanthor and Semberholme. But of all the places I had been and all the strange people I had met, none intrigued me as much as the humans.

"Dynamic and shorter-lived than all the other races, I was amazed at their intense passions and their need for change, their incredible insights and their amazing inventiveness. I spent many years among them learning their ways. I had lived with the humans in the Dales, but they were not so different from the elves, having been integrated with them for so long. I began to feel that these "outside" humans must be specially protected, left to themselves as they otherwise were among the ravages of the world. I needed to understand this part of me – the inborn nature of me that went so far beyond what my father could teach me."

He felt like saying it was this exploration of his human side that developed in him his physique, hairstyle, affinity for facial hair, and penchant for alcohol, but he knew that would only ruin the picture he was trying to paint. He would tell her _that_ in the future.

"This attention was not without its problems. My mother grew afraid that I would _become_ more human, cultivating _only_ that side of my heritage, and their propensity for war would lead to my death. My brother, Linoral, had met his demise at the hands of orcs while defending Phlan."

Not that he expected any response from her, but he figured she may feel something for his brother that had died protecting her homeland. Unfortunately, she was too lost in her grief to pay attention to it.

"One day, I was protecting a shipment of medicine to Hillsfar when the drow attacked Semberholme. My father led a resistance and managed to drive the elves deep into the forest. In their efforts to get away from him, they skirted too close to the Darkwatch. Demons issued from the rift, destroying drow and human alike. My father was felled and his soldiers barely were able to escape back to the Dale with his body."

Her eyes grew sad at this point, but whether for her pain or for his, he could not be sure.

"When I returned, I found that my father was dead. I went to comfort my mother and say that I wish I had been there – you know, a true, but trite statement. She surprised me by saying that had I been there, Harmon would still be alive. She told me that it was helping these people that _caused_ my father's death; if I had not spent so much time away, he would not be dead.

"It did not matter that my helping the humans, as my brother Linoral before me, was something my father would have been proud of, and that _countless_ of _their_ lives had been saved.

"I tried to reason with her, tell her it was her grief talking, but she told me 'It is because of gallivanting around with the humans and spending more time with their kind and not enough with your own' – elven kind, apparently – 'that all your sense is gone. They have taken you away from us, from me, and now they have taken your father.'

"I told her that humans had nothing to do with this and that her _husband_ was a human but she said that even _he_ didn't spend so much time with their kind. I told her that I would go away for a while and she would realize that it was not my fault.

"'Go away then,' she said. 'Go away and be a human. The elves are no longer your people. And do not return, for every time I see you I will be reminded of Harmon's death; I go to be with the elves. We should have gone the way of the Retreat long ago. Then you would not be tainted and Harmon would still be here.'

"The last time I saw her was twenty-seven years ago.

"The reason I am telling you this is because I too lost a parent – two if you want to wax metaphorical – and for a while I blamed myself for his death. True, at first, I held stalwartly to the belief that I was doing my duty and he his, but the longer I thought about it, about my mother's words, I became unsure.

"I traveled the world far and wide to find an answer, and it was not until I came to Neverwinter that I became convinced of the truth. Had I been with my father, more likely I would have died, and all the things I have been a part of since then, where I have been able to help the most, would not have been. What's more, if things had progressed as they have and I instead accepted this guilt as my own, I would likely still be in the Dales with my mother, and the umbilical cord of her controlling personality would be firmly wrapped around my neck."

He could see her jaw set, almost as if she were chewing his words. Though it was difficult for him to say it, it was necessary. _He_ had realized it the hard way, and she must as well.

"I have learned that we cannot, must not, let the past dictate the present, and certainly not those events that we could not have changed. To do so… would mean the death of self in the present."

Tarlin slammed shut her eyes even as she squeezed his hand, bringing forth a pain he would gladly endure should she be saved from her own. Then, just as abruptly she let go of his hand and stood. Turning on her heel and never once looking at him, she strode from the room letting the door slam shut.

He lay there for several more hours. At one point, a soft-spoken sun elf, young even for their standards, came to reapply an unguent and bandages to his hands, and bring him food. He was gone after a short moment though, leaving Dernhelm alone with his thoughts.

They were anything but peaceful.

The conversation with Tarlin had brought forth memories, images of the past that he had thought safely buried in his heart. All of them were of his father and most of them good, but they filled his heart with sadness as he felt anew the loss of the fiery-tempered old man. He could see the tall trees of Cormanthor, their verdant leaves shining in the sun as his father taught him to hunt around haunted Myth Drannor, flitting through the shadows as they stalked a patrol of drow. He remembered the first time his father had shown him Zhentil Keep, allowing him to witness a public execution for a "traitor," a businessman that had exposed a Zhentarim murder of a Phlanian official. It was then, when he was not yet twenty, his father had made him swear an oath to seek out and stop any injustice within his ability. He could even see his father teaching him how to use a sword and he remembered how his father instructed him exactly _when_ to use it: to dispense death only to those "who by their actions had forfeited their right to exist in civilized society."

But eventually, thinking of death and the sad things of the past, his mind drew inexorably to his wife and their unborn child. He had tried to push all thoughts of Aribeth's present plight from his mind, reminding himself that he could not help her except by defeating the Enemy. Neurik had done everything he could and he had assured Dernhelm she would live – though she looked to the contrary when he had seen her last.

But the thing that no one could help was the loss of his baby.

It is hard to believe that a person could be hurt so much not over the loss of someone they have never met, but over the loss of one that has never even yet been, but that was how it was. He knew that if he was struggling then Aribeth must be suffering even more greatly – she undoubtedly knew by now. Of all things, that was the main reason he wished he could be with her, to comfort her in the midst of her sadness. And yet, this mission was of paramount importance because all of the comforting in the entire world would not matter if the Enemy won.

He was a seasoned fighter and had spent many years of his life learning how to subsume his fears and pains, but here, in this place, with a human woman that had suffered as greatly as he and whose heart had never been healed, he found it nearly impossible to shut the door on his wounds.

It was into this room, where he lay troubled, that his mother entered, stealing through door as if sneaking. He saw her of course, and he sighed. He was dreading the time that they would have to meet alone. And worse, this woman had changed so greatly since the last time he had seen her, shifting rapidly between conflicting emotional states where before she was uniformly overbearing and strict, he scarcely had a notion of how to deal with her. And she had grown so old!

Sidling up to the bed, she sat on the chair Tarlin had vacated. She said nothing for a long time, merely looking him over as if recording his image in her mind. It was vaguely unsettling having his mother regard him in that way, even though it had been nearly three decades since they had really spent any time together.

"What do you want mother?" Dernhelm asked at last in a tired voice.

A hurt looked passed across her face.

"It has been almost thirty years and that is the first thing you say to me?"

"Given the last thing _you_ said to _me_ thirty years ago, I don't think you have a right to complain."

She sat back as if slapped, her face going pale, tears brimming in the corners of her crenellated eyes. She took several breaths to calm herself and then settled her hands one on top of the other on her lap.

Sighing, she said, "I guess I deserved that."

Inside, Dernhelm was stunned. This was _certainly_ not the same woman he had known all those years ago. Then she would have pressed the issue about how he constantly wounded her with his words, how he was uncaring and hateful, regardless of who was in the right, until he acquiesced out of a sheer need to be free of the conversation. He needed to wrap his brain around this.

"Why are you here?" he said at last. "You said you were going on the Retreat to Evermeet."

"I did," she replied, her eyes taking on a distant look. "For about fifteen years I resided in the land beyond the sea – I had just grown so tired and weary of this place after your father had passed." This she said without a tremor of sadness. It seemed she finally may have put away her grief.

"…I… found I couldn't be happy even there knowing that you were abroad in the world mad at me…"

He opened his mouth to rebut her comment, but she cut him off.

"That is, knowing that _I_ had been the one to cause the problems that drove you away. I… I just couldn't live with that."

"So you came back here? Why did you not go back to the Dale?"

"This is the safest place left in Faerûn, that is, the safest place for elves..."

He waited for her to finish the thought, suspecting what she had left unsaid. Maybe there were still parts of his mother very much the same.

"…and because it was closer to where you were."

Yes, parts that are very much the same, he thought.

"Why do you care? You have been here for twelve years and yet you have never tried to see me."

He could tell his words stung but he would not take them back. He would not "be nice" as she considered it, not only because of the manner of their last parting, but he did not want to do anything that made it seem like the "old times" when she tried to keep him under her wings.

She did not rise to the bait however. She just merely looked at him, her head cocked to one side as if she were considering him for the first time. It was unnerving, but he suspected she was gauging him just as he was her.

At last she merely said, "I figured you would not want to see me, so I was caught between hurting by being away and hurting by being near."

He guessed the words were true enough. He could almost echo her sentiment, but for different reasons: he was hurt when they were together and hurt to a small degree when they were apart, a tiny pang at the separation.

"I _have_ kept an eye on you as much as I can," she said after a moment.

He didn't ask how. When he was growing up, his mother claimed that she had eyes and ears everywhere, and so personable was she that people volunteered information to her about him never realizing her ulterior motives. Many times he had returned from a raid or a mercy caravan and she had all but informed _him_ of the outcome before he had even opened his mouth. Part of him was hoping that if his mother changed, this aspect of her personality would have been the most affected.

"So you know I am married?"

She nodded, but a look of sadness crossed her face. He did not know whether it was because he had done so in her absence, or because he had not consulted her on the rightness of his choice.

"Does she treat you right?"

"Like a king, mother, though I do not deserve it. And I treat her like one of the celestials, for that is what she seems."

"And you are happy?"

"The present situation aside, yes, we are very happy." He kept his face calm, though at the mention of his wife his insides churned. Given the speed of their arrival, he didn't think she could possibly know that Aribeth had gotten injured, but he didn't want her to know anything more than was absolutely necessary. Somehow, it always came back to haunt him.

"Do you have any children?" his mother asked suddenly, scattering Dernhelm's thoughts and bringing a sudden lump into his throat. His mother's eyes rose as if she caught the reaction, but he forced himself to be calm. Somehow his mother also knew how to ferret information from him, as if she could read his inmost thoughts. It was one of those abilities she possessed, presumably from birth, and it always made him feel creepy. It made him especially feel creepy that such an innocuous question brought up the heart of his pain that he had been struggling with before she came in.

He decided rather than answering, he would control the line of questioning, changing to topics of which he felt more comfortable and also needed to know the answers. But first, he would catch her off guard.

"I figured you would be happy, me marrying an elf."

His mother, whose mouth was open as if to ask why he had failed to respond, moved back from him as if he had struck. It was a mean thing for him to do, but it diverted her attention.

"I _am_ happy for you," she replied.

"So how have you, a wood elf from the dales, instilled yourself in the graces of the Hill Elders?"

The look on her face told him he had her completely off guard. She answered almost without thinking.

"…when I left Evermeet, I first returned to the dales, but found that either they or I had changed and the appeal of living there was gone. I walked for a while among the trees of Cormanthor but again all I saw was history. Finally, amidst the ruins of the elves, I found a portal to this place, warded, but unused for many years, and thought that maybe here I would find the peace that I was looking for.

"When I came through the portal, the Hill Elders questioned me about my arrival and were intrigued that I had discovered such a device that they did not know about. They were not impressed about my ancestry… but about my progeny…"

She gave Dernhelm a meaningful look, but he suppressed his shock. He didn't know if she was trying to win back control of the conversation, but it felt like a sort of emotional appeal that hid some deeper meaning.

"They were happy about the re-sinking of Undrentide, especially given their problems with the Shades, and as we are a tradition-bound people, even the parents of honored children are honored."

"They didn't exactly treat me like an honored guest – especially not that rat Fanuilous."

"True, but at the same time, it is hard for them not to see you as an outsider-"

"A half-breed," he said, trying to bring truth back to the words he knew she was sugar-coating.

"Outsider," she corrected him with a look bordering on anger. "And Fanuilous is one unenlightened in the ways of the world – by his own choice. He resents the fact we needed the help of others in our war with the phaerimm and the Shades, as do many here."

"I have learned that no matter how strong you may appear, you cannot survive without allies."

She showed no sign that he had just insulted these people. Instead she replied, "So this is why you partner with the human?"

"Yes, _Tarlin_ and I are friends, as are Daelan the half-orc, and Nathyrra, the drow," he said, giving a name and substance to each of his companions.

She ignored the last.

"And why is your wife not here with you?"

He kept his face calm. "She is leading the defense of Neverwinter."

"And you are here to defeat this creature that followed you from the Plane of Shadow?"

He nodded.

"Well, then, I have no doubt you will be successful."

"Will the elves give us any further aid?"

"Aside from horses and the aid that they have already given, I think not. Once you are healed – and they believe you shall by tomorrow morning – you will be escorted out of here with many encouraging words. Really, they are ready to see you go."

He raised an eyebrow.

"The stir you have caused to these people has been enormous. Not only have you entered a site left sealed for nearly ten thousand years, they have found that they are not as secure as they wish to be – a security that was already shaken during the last war."

"I try," he said, attempting a roguish grin, but it did not affect her.

Finally, he asked the question that was the most important, but he feared for the response or lack thereof.

"Do the elves know where we should look for this Enemy?"

"'The land through that door will not rise again until the ancient blight is destroyed.'" she recited. "The human – uh, Tarlin – related it to us earlier this morning. The elves have been considering it for several hours but they say the metaphor is too vague to be precise. They have come up with a small list of candidate sites, but I fear that they range from Myth Drannor to Hellgate Keep."

He squashed the deep-seated sigh that rose to his lips.

"When will we get back our weapons?" he asked to keep his attention diverted.

"On the morn, though I daresay they will be happy to be rid of that talking sword of yours even more than they will be happy to see you and the human gone." She actually chuckled. "I have not heard such colorful insults for many a year."

"And the box from Miyeritar?" Dernhelm asked, unamused, his heart still quaking with the jeopardy in which he found this quest.

In response, and wholly unexpected, his mother's face became ashen. Turning away, she looked toward the far side of the room as if studying the palely painted walls. He recognized that face. He had seen it only once before, when his brother had said that he would go to defend Phlan against impossible odds. She had considered it too dangerous – understandably so – and yet she knew that her son would not be dissuaded. She had done everything in her power to stop him, even to the point of cutting loose his horse so that he would be unable to ride. In the end, he had gone to his death.

Dernhelm surmised that she knew what the device was used for and it was dangerous. He suspected also that she was not about to let him have it back, that she would attempt to make his choices for him all with the idea of protecting him, against his will if need be as she had tried to do with his brother.

To his surprise, she took a long sigh and then looked back at him with slumped shoulders. She spoke after a moment. "The elves of Miyeritar were destroyed to the last during the Crown Wars, their city falling to those who would become the drow. As their last city stood on the brink of failure, they fashioned for themselves weapons in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. The devices used the essence from a living being to create a powerful burst of energy, a sacrificial weapon in which one elf gave his life to protect another. It was the highest form of desperation even as it was that of love. Your device is the only one of these to ever be recovered."

Dernhelm was shaken at the danger that they had held in their hands unknowing, but was determined to possess it for little more than the petty reason that he would not see his mother afford him an unasked for and unwelcome protection. He liked knowing that others would risk themselves for him, but he could not brook those who did so because they still viewed him as a child.

"And so where will it be housed?" he asked angrily, as if reading her thoughts.

"You will be given it back," Linüye said, and smiled wanly at his shock. "The elves do not want it as it reminds them of their own mortality and danger, and as the finder, it is rightfully yours."

He paused, at a loss for words. Finally, he collected himself to say "So you will not keep it from me even though it is dangerous?"

She shook her head, and then she fixed him with a warm smile as one would to a respected friend rather than a child. It was a look he could not ever remember her affording him.

"I have learned to trust your judgment."

He nearly fainted in disbelief and likely would have done so had the young elf that had affixed bandages on his hands not come back into the room.

Standing suddenly, his mother squeezed his arm above the elbow, and then turned to leave. "It is good to see you again. I am proud of you," she said, and then the door closed and she was gone.

"It is good to see you too," he said silently as the elf began his work, and for the first time in well over three decades, it was completely heartfelt.


	15. Chapter XIV: Uncovered Metaphor

**Chapter XIV: Uncovered Metaphor, Recovered Soul**

The young elf led the way into a large chamber, between a set of double-doors adorned with clinging vines of silver pollinated by bees of gold. The room lay near the base of one of the towers at the edge of town, a squat structure carved out of variegated marble. When he had first seen it set against the opulence and magnificence of the city, he had eyed it incredulously. Its doorway was at ground-level like the obsidian Tower of Vilshire.

"And what manner of structure is this, so plebian and out of the way?" he remembered asking.

The young elf looked at him startled. Undoubtedly he had been ordered to say little and that scripted, but more that Dernhelm was seemingly ignorant of the workings of the city.

"It is the Tower of War, my lord," he had replied after a moment.

Not bedecked with the customary martial finery, Dernhelm still could not accept it as he climbed the stairs. He could next accept it that is until he entered the large circular room on the second floor. The ceiling was so high that he could believe it stretched to the top of the tower more than one-hundred feet above him, regardless of the winding stair spiraling upward that he had passed in the hall. And from floor to ceiling it was covered with tapestries and artifacts from wars spanning over ten thousand years of history.

There was depicted the destruction of the two fiends, Finrazel and Durith, during the war between Cormanthyr and the Army of Darkness. Beside it hung the last defense of Ascalhorn against the Demons of Hellgate. The arrival of Ecamane Truesilver and his mages as they came to form what would become the famed city of Silverymoon was also there, picked out in the finest silk and thread-of-gold. And to his surprise, even the founding of the Deeping Dale by Imryll Eluarshee hung on the wall to his right, the Deeping Princess' long brown hair flying out behind.

And in each were depicted demons of every sort, orcs, ogres, and all the crawling things of darkness driven before the might of the elves. To a certain degree it was an artistic embellishment born out of specialistic pride, but he knew that at their heart, the elves could back up any one of those stories with unrivaled force.

Even more impressive than the wall-coverings, however, were the weapons. While people lay at the heart of every legend, nothing tangible remained of them except tall tales and anecdotes. What did persist though, were the artifacts that made these stories possible. And the collection the elves had assembled here was enough to strike down Elminster with awe. Swords, axes, staves, and bows of a staggering range of sizes made out of practically every material imaginable hung in artistic patterns, expertly positioned to reinforce the linen stories between them. Lavinia's crystal spear hung point downward next to the sword of Dathlue Mistwinter, founder of the Harpers at Twilight over one thousand years previously. There hung the sword of Elesde, Prince Chelimber and one-time ruler of the Marsh that bears his name. There was even the battle axe of the elven warlord Nimrael, whose massive, tree-like bulk – unheard of among the slender elves – was as legendary as his ferocity, driving the orcs from the Nelanther Isles out of the Wealdath to the salvation of both Amn and Tethyr.

And to their right…

With a cry he ran over to a sword hanging on the wall, cradled horizontally by two metal hooks, weather-beaten hilt appearing threadbare among the other finery. Its fuller was less than an inch wide, tapering to a point a little more than halfway down the dented blade, but to Dernhelm, it was the most precious thing he'd seen in over thirty years. In this house of tribute to the finest warriors of the age, in the second most precious havens of the greatest of all the elves, hung the sword of his father.

Without thinking he picked it up and handled it lovingly, not even hearing the sharp intake of breath behind him. Dernhelm had not seen his father since before he had gone on that mission to Hillsfar; when he had heard his father was dead he had opted to not go to the funeral in order to perfectly capture the memory of the white-haired human in full health. As such, this was the first glimpse of him in three decades. It was almost so overwhelming that he nearly failed to hear his mother come up to stand beside him.

When she said, "I had it brought here from Evermeet," he took notice.

"But why would they afford him, a _human_, such an honor?" he asked incredulously, his mind not fully accepting the presence of this artifact so far from the land of his home – so far in more than just geographical distance.

"Not in many a year had anyone fought so effectively against the drow as your father, and even in this secluded place, the elves had heard and taken note of it."

His mother was bedecked in court finery, a black silk blouse embroidered with white flowers atop a skirt of black and gold. It still struck him as strange that his mother would be here with him now, but his brain could almost accept it in lieu of this recent development.

"When I brought your father's sword with me to Evermeet and then to here as a tangible entity to my waking dream, the elves saw fit to inter it here in this the shrine to battle against their enemies."

A loud clearing of throat brought him and his mother out of their revelry and he turned to see the male sun elf that had sent him on his quest into the obsidian tower, none other than the highest of the Hill Elders and the leader of the Evereskan people. His black hair was arranged about his coppery neck above a doublet of purple silk tied at the waist with a silver belt; the alabaster crown sat upon his brow.

He regarded Dernhelm with a look of disdain, his golden eyes glancing over the sword that Dernhelm cradled as if to say, "Put that back. Your hands are sullying it."

Dernhelm, in turn, made a show of ignoring him, carefully wiping the sword on his clean shirt, and then turning to place it reverently back on the cradle. He stood there for a long moment, fixing the weapon in his mind's eye.

"Don't overdo it," Linüye said in a low voice.

He merely smiled before he turned back to face the elf lord.

With his attention off the martial decorations and focused on the more plebian aspects of the room, he saw that the elf lord was standing behind a square table about five feet on a side, his hands gently resting on the edges near one corner. Around him were gathered the other four Hill Elders, the look on their faces an odd mix of disapproval when they looked at him – for touching "their" historical artifacts no doubt – and determination as they looked down at the table. From his position, he could only make out changes in coloration but he knew it must be important. He moved toward it for he assumed that he was brought here to the Tower of War for this purpose.

Tarlin intercepted him halfway – how he had missed her he could not say – grasping his left upper arm gently. The look in her eyes spoke of sadness and calm, as of a problem that will always linger in the mind but whose sting has been removed. He had seen that look only recently in his own eyes as he stared into the mirror above his small washtub after his mother had gone. For a brief moment they just stood there regarding each other, their eyes passing words that their lips never could, but he understood everything.

"It's not that easy of a burden to give up," Tarlin said finally, but her words carried a measure of acceptance, as he had hoped, and not resistance.

"No it's not," he said sighing, a faint smile coming to his lips as he agreed with her. "No it's not."

Smiling in response – pain still evident but waning – she motioned with her head over her shoulder, indicating the table surrounded by five of the most powerful elves in all Faerûn. He took her left arm in his and together they walked over to it.

What he saw there surprised him. The elven lords were looking at a shifting mass of colors – browns, greens, and blues – a map of Faerûn five foot square that responded to their voices and showed everything from cities to topography, projecting from the flat surface of the table and reshaping instantly as their eyes passed over it. One moment they were viewing the Elven Court south of the Moonsea and the next, Thay came into view.

Maps were always a precious commodity in Faerûn and the magic of the old elves even more so, the "high magic" it was called, but he had never seen the two tied together and never a map as detailed as this ever-changing one. When they passed over Neverwinter en route to Icewind Dale, his heart actually leapt in the juvenile hope that he may actually glimpse Aribeth atop the walls of the city whose outline could be clearly seen.

He almost stopped to ask the elves if the images they were seeing were current because the line of the walls was unbroken. A quick look at the confines of the High Forest told him that the images were at least a decade old; the treants would love to still protect such a large number of trees from the ravages of human encroachment.

The principal lord – the Hill Eldest, Dernhelm thought – spoke a word in that unfamiliar elven dialect, and the image moved rapidly across a melted swath of color to stabilize in a god's-eye view of Evereska. Three runes were drawn on the largest of the twelve hills of their sheltered domain, glowing silver against the dark color of the mountains, and Dernhelm suspected that they must signify place names – Dinerondel in this case.

"We have indentified three possible locations for your search," the Hill Eldest said in his atonal voice, his eyes fixed on the map as if reciting to himself alone. He placed his finger on Evereska.

"Starting with the one which is closest," the image shifted to the southeast traversing a wide plain of amber-colored grasses whose blades appeared small yet sharply defined in the magical image. They even seemed to blow in the wind in real time. The idyllic grassland transitioned abruptly, however, and was replaced by a wasted, lifeless landscape covered with all manner of sun-bleached bones. Huge ribs stuck upward as if in a plea for relief from a blinding sun, and vultures circled overhead, so real that Dernhelm wanted to reach out and poke at their feathered forms. A little farther to the southeast stood a volcano, extinct for years given the irregularity of the cone, sporting a crater with a maw so deep that the sunlight could not illuminate the base. Above each floated more silver runes.

"Akaraleth and Athkore," the elf intoned. "The Battle of Bones and the Well of Dragons," he said pointing at each feature in turn. "They lay not one hundred miles to the southeast. Though the Battle is less than four hundred years old, a dragon from the Plane of Shadow has resided within the volcano for nearly two millennia, using his power to not only keep himself alive but raise servants from the Battle."

"A dracolich?" Dernhelm asked. He had fought – and destroyed – only one before, but with substantial personal pain… and with equally substantial help. It was not something he would wish to repeat.

The Hill Eldest nodded.

"He has allied himself with the vile Cult of the Dragon and several times they have made war on us as well as the humans of Cormyr. It may be that Jangdwynyd appeared here. He may even control the dracolich."

With another word and a small gesture of his hand, the image shifted again, back over the Battle and the land of the Elves to the northwest, passing over two mountain ranges separated by a wide fen. Eventually, a vast forest came into view, stretching nearly from one side of the table to the other. Even at this distance – if distances could be inferred – they could discern the crowns of shadowtops standing proudly amidst clusters of weirwood, carefully cultivated and protected by the hundred score treants that called the forest home. But it was not for the beauty of the forest their view was to linger; the image shifted to the mountain range that fell alongside the northern edge of the forest like a giant stone fence.

"The Nether Mountains. Home to snow yetis, snow leopards, and anything adapted to deep snow, especially tieflings." Dernhelm raised his eyes to stare at the Hill Eldest. It sounded so clearly like a sarcastic joke, he expected to see a wry smile play on his thin lips, but the elf showed no change in facial expression. "For over twelve millennia, a conflict was waged among the Fiends of the Lower Planes – between creatures of the Abyss and Baator – stretching back into the mists of time before even the founding of Dinerondel.

"About five thousand years ago, one of the baatezu, an arch-devil named Gargauth, was driven out of the Lower Planes by his enemies. It seems he had proven too ruthless and cunning, subverting even some of the greater demons with promises of power should they help him ascend to domination that the lords of the Nine Hells were forced to act. They drove him here, to this Plane, and he has taken up residence in the Nether Mountains."

The image shifted to the eastern side of the range where a collection of disconnected hills were surrounded by a nearly unbroken wall of mountains convex to the east. The image enlarged one of these hills, a bald mound several miles across crowned with a tower of black rock. The Hill Eldest pointed at the tower.

"There the devil resides, nearly five hundred miles to the north. Throughout his long history, he has worked to manipulate the races, working always from the shadows, positioning himself at key moments in history to win power and most of all, prestige. He believes that by gaining fame and glory, his former colleagues, the extant arch-devils of Baator, will be inclined to work to gain him reentrance into the Lower Planes, cast out as he was by their mutual enemies.

"We believe it is a false hope. Even helping the Netherese wizards find the Nether Scrolls was seemingly not enough to draw their attention. He aided the Army of Darkness in subduing Myth Drannor though he did not take part in the battle, and has been largely the source of all tieflings which populate Faerûn. If there is a blight more ancient that this one, we cannot imagine it."

Tarlin looked up at Dernhelm. Though the Enemy may prove virtually omnipotent, putting the name arch-devil to him – or to where he may lair or exercise his control – gave him a more tangible quality, a quality that inspired fear in most sentient beings. These creatures stood at the pinnacle of the infernal hierarchy. Neither Tarlin nor Dernhelm nor he suspected his friends, would gladly go to war with such a creature, especially one which may now be dominated by the creature of Shadow.

"And one could argue a connection has already been made between Baator and Abeir-Toril from the body of Mephistopheles."

Once again the image on the table shifted, climbing over the mountains and then falling on the wide, orangey-tan color of the Desert of Anauroch. For several long moments, the sandy waste slid by and for all he knew that the table was just an image, Dernhelm found himself becoming thirsty under the power of this great suggestion. Scattered inselbergs stuck up like fingers from some ancient creature now buried beneath the sands, their rocky prominences beaten down slowly by the relentless gritty, desert winds.

Finally, the desert was left behind, and another wall-like mountain range slid into view followed by an immense forest, almost glaringly green after the muted, monotones of the desert waste. He had never seen the forest from this view before – few had he would imagine – but he knew instantly he was looking at the woods of Cormanthor. He almost looked to the right edge of the table to see if he could glimpse the Deepingdale, see a piece of his home to which he had not returned in almost thirty years. But the image was lost from view as it moved toward the central, thickest part of the forest. Here, though unglimpsed through the thick canopy of trees, and needing no runes to mark the site, Dernhelm knew was the once-great seat of elven power.

"Myth Drannor," the Hill Eldest said, pointing at the spot beneath the runes. "While not ancient by our standards – falling less than seven hundred years ago – _is_ home to an ancient evil. After the destruction of the Army of Darkness, the core of the city was tightly protected. In recent years, only the Illythiiri…" he paused and he scrunched up his face with a look of extreme distaste. It was the first major emotional display Dernhelm had yet seen. Forcing his face to its normal blankness, the Hill Eldest continued.

"…have posed any real problem. Two years ago, however, an undead paladin, came to Myth Drannor."

Dernhelm's ears perked up. There were few death knights abroad in the world, and all had wicked and powerful reputations. He just hoped it wasn't…

"His name is Lord Belros."

"Damn," Dernhelm said aloud, and all the Hill Elders looked at him shocked, but whether it was because of his language, or because he knew someone of Belros' importance who had not been seen on their Plane for many hundreds of years, he could not say.

"I last encountered him in the Wastes of Cania. He had somehow run afoul of Mephistopheles and had been banished to the Wastes," Dernhelm recounted. "I assumed then when I banished Mephistopheles, only I and the two others with me had escaped." He took a long sigh. Somehow it seemed that breaking free of the devil's hold and returning to his Plane had set loose a veritable plethora of evils. He knew in his heart that he was faultless – he had been ignorant of the evils seeking to exploit his freedom – but it hurt him to know that much suffering stemmed from this ignorance.

"Lord Belros escaped also," the Hill Eldest said, but surprisingly this time his voice was absent of reproach. Maybe he was sensitive to Dernhelm's inner pain, or he was balancing Dernhelm's "evil" against his destruction of the Bebilith beneath their city, or he simply realized that chastising the half-elf for things of hindsight was no longer productive. In any case, he continued.

"We do not know how he escaped, but he came to Myth Drannor, found a way to avoid the spells of warding, entered the Tower of the Eladrin, and named himself king. The demons have become his servants, and he has even gained allies among the Illythiiri. He has not yet made moves toward war, but we feel it is only a matter of time before he strikes out at the elves still living in Cormanthor."

What the Hill Eldest failed to mention is that Belros would also be in striking distance of the less protected people of the dales. Dernhelm figured the wizened elf probably could care less.

"We believe that Jangdwynyd lairs in one of these three areas and may have powerful allies… or thralls," the Hill Eldest said, staring down at the forests of Cormanthor as if he could pierce the canopy and see the once-mightiest city of the elves.

"I don't get it," Tarlin said at last. Having kept silent through the entire interchange, her vocalization caught the assembled off-guard and all eyes turned to regard her, even those owned by Dernhelm. The elves scrutinized her almost as one would an insect, for so beneath them was she that until now they had completely ignored her.

"There are plenty of other warrens of evil throughout Faerûn. I mean Hellgate Keep may have been destroyed, yet some evil still lurks there, the Castle Perilous near the Great Glacier has been the death of adventurers for nearly two centuries, and we cannot forget about the Shades in Anauroch! Why these and only these?"

The Elders took her tirade in stride and the Hill Eldest almost shook his head as if at her ignorance. So far beneath them.

"Would that the Shadovar were involved in this," the elf lord said. "We would like nothing better than to visit destruction on those hated shadow wizards, but they are not, cannot, be to blame. Not only do our divinations fail to suggest them as a possibility, I could not believe that Thultanthar – the City of Shade" the Eldest added when he saw Tarlin's quizzical expression "could exist as the outlet door to some demonic realm without Telamont Tanthul knowing. Plus, the Shadovar returned only seventeen years ago, and we have reason to believe the Reaper's domain that Dernhelm utilized existed for many years before that.

"Mephistopheles created the Reaper's Relic before Dernhelm stumbled upon it and that was twelve years ago. The only devils that we know of that have entrenched themselves in the Plane of Shadow came long before that."

But Tarlin was not convinced. It seemed inconceivable that the elves could not be more exact than these three disparate places spread over seven hundred miles and that of all places in Faerûn, these were the only choices. Growing up in Phlan, she knew of the evil surrounding Myth Drannor, and it did seemed to fit that if Lord Belros had escaped to Myth Drannor at the same time Dernhelm had arrived in Waterdeep, the enemy may be found there – may even be controlling the death knight – but something about it didn't feel right. It was too obvious, too coincidental. The Well of Dragons was a possibility, but the arch-devil in the Nether Mountains that neither she nor Dernhelm – by the look on his face – had heard of before seemed preposterous.

She forced herself to calm and shared a look with Dernhelm. Incredulity framed his face as clearly as his perpetually unkempt mop of dreadlocks. She wished she could talk with him, but she figured she already knew what would be said. He didn't like the choices any better than she and not because they were difficult, but they had no other options. Sighing, she looked back at the table.

"Can we go over the geography surrounding these three locations again? If we are to traverse such varied terrain, I would like to be able to see more from this view."

"I agree," Dernhelm said, leaning over the table.

The Hill Eldest nodded and the view slid back to Evereska. After lingering there for a moment, the image moved toward the Battle of Bones.

Suddenly, a thought struck her.

"Can this device render the place names in Common?"

At this the Hill Eldest drew back in offense.

"This construction was spellcast by the elves of Miyeritar nearly twelve thousand years ago, and it has shown their language ever since. Few can now read it, true, but it would be a crime to render it in any other tongue."

"Our apologies," Dernhelm cut in. "But seeing such lands from above as we are is hard to fix in one's mind's eye without names of familiar places to serve as guide posts."

The Hill Elders shared a long look amongst themselves, all of them bearing what could only be considered slightly nauseated expressions, none of them making any move to enact the magic. Into the midst of this cool reception, Linüye spoke.

"Eldest," she said, bowing her head respectfully. "If they are to go and risk their lives for themselves and us – as they have done previously beneath the city – then cannot this small concession be made if it will help them?"

The Eldest looked at her with an expression that layered coolness over the nausea, his left eyebrow drawing down even as the left side of his mouth curled upward and projected slightly as if considering her with disdain. Then he glanced around at the other Hill Elders. One of them, a female bearing a crown sporting lapis-lazuli, shook her head vehemently against such an action. After a moment, though, the others acquiesced, inclining their heads even as they cast their eyes down at spots that could only be beneath the table.

Tarlin was surprised. Not only that her simple request had met with such original opposition, but that Dernhelm's mother had stuck her neck out on their behalf and that it had worked. The Hill Eldest fixed her with a cool stare and began to chant. Rather than the simple monosyllables he had atonally uttered previously, his voice took on a robust baritone spilling forth in a long series of words in a dialect that she almost could understand. Dernhelm must have thought the same thing, because his head was cocked, listening.

The runes on the table remained unchanged for a long time, but as the words from the Hill Eldest's lips turned into sentences, they began to glow. Then the table shuddered once, a low rattling sound like the falling of tiny stones that presaged an avalanche, and the runes were rendered in the language of humans. The Hill Elders looked down at the table and it became quite evident that they were appalled at this blasphemy as they saw it, regardless of its necessity.

Neither Tarlin nor Dernhelm cared though, as the images slid by and they could decipher what they were looking at in a meaningful way. The route to the Battle of Bones was direct enough through a remote and spare country that the presence of place names was of little use to them, though the Well of Dragons was clearly marked, but the path to the Nether Mountains was another matter. Sundabar and the Silver Marches lay just to the northeast of the tower of the devil Gargauth, and nearly from the tower's foot drained the Washing River, a tributary of the great River Delimbiyr. They would just pass between the Graycloaks and the Graypeaks, crossing the Lonely Moor, skirting to the west of…

And Tarlin laughed, a deep-throated hearty chuckle, even as she pointed at the table. Everyone leaned in to see the source of her glee; beneath her finger was labeled "The Fallen Lands."

"I do not see what is so funny about that twisted fen," the Hill Eldest said, his face growing red with anger at her effrontery.

Tarlin tried to assuage his irritation, assuming he believed she was making fun of the elven magic somehow, but her mirth emanated from her in deep rumbles that threatened to steal away her breath. Finally, wiping eyes that were tear-filled, she met all of their indignant stares and smiled.

"The Enemy is there."

The anger growing in the Hill Eldest's face nearly broke through into apoplexy.

"Have you not been listening? We have told you the most likely places that Jangdwynyd may lair, borne out of many hours of divination and discussion, hurried yes, but nonetheless valid. How then can you say the enemy is there when some of the greatest minds in all the land say it is elsewhere?"

"Because you are not thinking like a devil."

The statement was so matter of fact that though the Elders perceived it as another insult, they were caught so off guard as to be rendered speechless. Not so Dernhelm who enjoyed the discomfiture of the elven rulers, but was also curious as to Tarlin's assuredness.

"Explain," he said.

"Meaning no disrespect," Tarlin began, giving Dernhelm the smallest conspiratorial wink. "But you are looking at the problem logically. You know where the most ancient evil resides and you have put together a list of the most dangerous of these. But the Reaper does not think that way, I'd imagine. He has a different set of ways to perceive the world; a sense of twisted irony and sarcasm would fit one of the Lower Planes.

"Think about it: 'The land through that door will not rise again until the ancient blight is destroyed.' What better description of a land that will not rise than a land that has 'fallen?' It is stupid, I agree, but undoubtedly humorous from the perspective of a slave to a major devil."

The Hill Elders continued to give her nearly viperous looks but it became evident that they were all considering. One of the emerald-crowned male elders looked at the table and then spoke, against all protocol, too shocked by the proposal to realize his error.

"And what of the 'ancient blight' in this place? Nothing has lurked there save a death tyrant, an undead beholder that conducts experiments on the denizens of the swamp." He pointed forcefully at the remains of a castle that lay partially sunken into the swamp about twelve miles from the southern border. "He has been there for less than half a century, raised by the dracolich that resides in the Well of Dragons. That is not exactly ancient by anyone's definition, and he bothers no one."

The Hill Eldest made no move to enforce discipline, but instead, nodded in agreement to the other's prognosis.

Tarlin raised her hands in her defense.

"That, I cannot answer. But something in my gut tells me I am right. It is so stupid, so childish a metaphor that it would fit with the character of a devil. I mean, even the name Reaper implies that his job is to take life dispassionately outside of any control, but instead he saves _from_ death, the very person who controls him."

"I don't why I do, since my gut is telling me nothing, but I agree," Dernhelm said, a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. "Everything I dealt with in regard to the Reaper or the devils in Cania involved metaphors and prophecies of the most inane sort."

"This is asinine," the Hill Eldest said at last. "You come to us for help, which we gladly offer" – Dernhelm wanted to contest this point but he felt it best to remain silent – "and we tell you where we believe that Jangdwynyd is entering Faerûn, and you ignore us completely. Go and do what you will, to the peril of us all." He threw up his hands and moved to walk away.

"We _do_ appreciate your help," Dernhelm responded sincerely, trying to diffuse the Eldest's anger. "But we can, as the colloquial expression goes, kill two birds with one stone, by seeking out Gargauth first, and crossing the Fallen Lands en route."

The Hill Eldest merely sighed without turning around, and stalked from the room. The other Elders were soon to follow.


	16. Chapter XV: March to the North

**Chapter XV: March to the North**

The next morning, they headed out of the valley on the first leg of their journey toward the north – to the Fallen Lands. Enserric quite liked the idea. It could be said that it takes one insane person to understand another, and to compare Enserric the Grey to a devil from the Lower Planes, there probably would not be much difference in their grip on reality.

The moment he was back in Dernhelm's possession he wouldn't shut up, like an annoyingly talkative family member whom you haven't seen in ages, though Dernhelm shoved him forcefully in the scabbard. His elven caretakers were glad to be rid of him, dark bags under their eyes evidencing how effective their attempts to block out his tireless voice had proven.

Periodically, Dernhelm could still here a muffled "Push it!" Enserric still could not understand how their curiosity hadn't gotten the better of their common sense and self-preservation concerning the device from Miyeritar. Dernhelm knew now what it did, but he was not about to relate this to the sword; he suspected that Enserric would assimilate the new information and then want him to use it just to watch a heretofore never witnessed display.

They left with little fanfare, the Hill Elders making no appearance, and only Linüye and a dozen mountain sentinels led by Fanuilous were there to escort them out. They started about mid-afternoon to allow for one more application of unguents to Dernhelm's hands, now basically healed.

The path out of the valley was the same that they had entered: through the polychromatic will-o-the-wisps, past the black meadow wall inset with silver-iridescent phenocrysts, and up the gentle switchbacks into the forest perfused with the hint of hickory and walnuts. It was evident that now that the Hill Elders had given them leave, Fanuilous was going to waste no time in escorting them out. So relentless was their pace, Dernhelm had barely enough time to take in the beauty of the elven valley from this vantage point, but he made use of every moment their party was forced to stop for Linüye. Dernhelm fully believed that even if he told the elf about his appreciation for the splendor of the elven land and his wish for several moments just to enjoy it, Fanuilous would have driven them all the harder to "protect the city" from his gaze, regardless of the impact on Dernhelm's aged mother. When they reached the mountain tunnel, Fanuilous led them through without hesitation, and in record time, they were out of the land of the elves, facing the long, tree-covered slope of the mountains.

The mica door slid shut behind them, but Dernhelm took no notice. His eyes were riveted on the sky. Fanuilous not able to deprive him of this beauty by goading them on to greater speed, Dernhelm took it all in. The Sun, sliding toward night in the western sky, illuminated clouds that formed a sharply defined line in the west. Positioned just so, the bottoms of the clouds glowed like a tumultuous sea, tinted red in the distance, and becoming orange and then purple as the breaking waves surged toward his eye. The leading edge of the clouds was swept upward, their tops just high enough to catch the Sun above, shining brilliantly white. And in the middle of the sea, the edge was broken, spilling forth a multitude of yellow cumulus clouds like a coffer of gold fit for a king's treasury.

Linüye put her hand on his shoulder and he turned, and nearly laughed when he saw the sky above Evereska. It was colored blue as the sky gets in the east at the death of day, with thick, heavy stratus clouds that bespoke of rain. So ominous and dispiriting they looked compared to the direction in which he was traveling, that he could almost believe that the Hill Elders had worked some of their 'high magic' on the sky to encourage him to leave without thought of return.

The look on Linüye's face was not one of humor. He had spent not fully two days in Evereska and their separation of nearly thirty years had only just begun to heal. The look on her face was one she had given him many times when he went on long crusades into uncertain success, but at least it was not one of hateful contempt. They both knew there was nothing to be done about his departure, but that did not lessen the pain of separation. It was strange that after so many years of dealing with the hurt she had caused him, even growing used to it, that now, after so short a visit it would pain him to leave.

She reached out her hand as if to place it on his arm as she had always done, ordering him to be safe and not take stupid risks, but instead, she let the hand fall.

"I know you will be careful," she said at last. "Give your wife my love when this is over." Tears welled in her eyes as he had expected they would, but they merely hung there unshed.

Thinking of nothing he could possibly say, he stood there for a moment, then reached forward and drew his mother into a bear-like embrace. She responded by gripping his arms above the elbows and squeezing him gently. With this, a small sob did escape her lips, but when she drew away from him, her face had regained most of its composure. He was surprised; normally she was the one that had to all but order hugs from him, clinging to him almost sycophantically. What a change! He looked at her for a long moment, this woman that at one point had tried to be too much of his life, now acting so reservedly that had the execution of it not been so sincere and genuine, he might now be disturbed at the uniqueness of it.

They stood there regarding each other, and then his mother turned on her heel, passed through the thin screen of mica and was gone. Tarlin looked over at him with a small smile of friendship. Fanuilous looked at him with a gaze approaching hate.

Nathyrra and Daelan looked up as they reentered the camp, Dernhelm settling down next to the cheery fire, helping himself to a bit of the rabbit that was roasting above it. Tarlin was quick to join him, but she also sought out the skin of ale they had brought with them. Allowing herself only a small sip to make their precious fuel supply last for the coming ordeal as long as possible, she settled on the ground not far from the half-elf.

"So that's it?" Nathyrra asked, coming to stand in front of Dernhelm. "You are gone two days and the first thing you do is grab some grub without even a hello?"

"Hello," Dernhelm said with a smile, and then motioned her out of the way with his boot. Reaching forward he grabbed another piece of rabbit, which he began to munch on contentedly.

"Argh!" Nathyrra all but shouted. "So just where are we going? I assume you figured _that_ out?"

"Tarlin did," Dernhelm said around a delicious mouthful. When he saw Nathyrra's eyebrow rise, he nearly choked on his meat in laughter. So much had occurred in those two short days that he couldn't quite wrap his brain around it, not the least of it was the radical change in the human's personality.

Nathyrra looked over at Tarlin who was also smiling slightly.

"And?" the little drow said in annoyance.

"The Fallen Lands," Tarlin replied, wiping her mouth. She had allowed herself a little more than a sip.

At this, Daelan's ears perked up. He had been lounging on one side of the fire, his back to the bole of a large shadowtop, but discussions of the lands around his home always caught his attention.

"The Fallen Lands lay less than four hundred miles from my home. I have passed by that fen on several occasions guarding caravans between Sundabar and Loudwater. Nasty place, that."

"I assumed as much," came Dernhelm's sarcastic reply. "When have we ever had to go to a place all candy and roses?"

Tarlin chuckled even as Daelan smiled.

Nathyrra though, stayed her prickly self.

"And the artifact?"

"Push it!" came Enserric's muffled shout.

Knowing she would not let the matter rest, Dernhelm rummaged in his pack, and after a moment, produced the orb, half a foot in diameter, glowing just as cheerily and brightly blue as it had in that demon's chamber a thousand feet below the land of the elves.

Nathyrra's eyes lit up, and not from the reflection of the orb's light. Ever since they had started working together in the Underdark, she had developed a deep fascination with all things magical. Her dark arms poked out of her robe of leather as she reached forward to take it from Dernhelm. He, however, was not amenable to this proposition, to her chagrin.

He held it before her for a moment, the blue light illuminating their camp many times better than the yellow glow of the fire could have done, and then placed it back into his pack. The sudden cessation of light plunged the camp into a deep darkness that took their eyes a moment to readjust to.

"It is completely dangerous," Dernhelm said as he surveyed her crestfallen and somewhat angry expression. "It sets up an anti-magic field over a whole region, destroying static magical items, causing spells to fail, and even destroying creatures born completely from magic."

Nathyrra's and even Daelan's eyes went wide.

"The elves had hidden it in a catacomb deep beneath and technically outside the confines of their city for the irrational fear that it may accidentally be activated. It can only be used once, stopping magic over a 'huge' area."

The hungry look in Nathyrra's eyes diminished, but he knew she wished to study it. Knowing the mechanics or at least the effects of a magical artifact alleviated much of the danger to study, and Nathyrra had duplicated many magical items of surprising complexity and power over the years. Even though this was forged by elves at the height of their power more than twelve millennia past, he knew that she would still attempt it; she rankled at the suggestion that the surface elves were better at all types of non-destruction magic than the subterranean drow. Still, her attention was diverted to another matter.

"So we have the device and the location of the Enemy," she said. "Any idea as to what exactly we will be up against?"

"The elves spoke of a death tyrant lurking in the deep of the Fallen Lands."

"Beholders," Daelan said in his deep voice. "Wonderful."

"Hmmm," Nathyrra said, her thumb under her chin, her index finger angled over her lips. "Maybe this is to our benefit."

"How so?" Tarlin said, leaning forward. She was now partaking more heavily from the remains of the rabbit.

"Undead are merely spirits forced to inhabit decaying bodies, theirs or those of another."

"Right," Dernhelm said, wiping his mouth with a scrap of rag.

"If I were the Enemy, I would want a body, at least a temporary one, which I could control and use to interact with the world."

"Yes, that makes sense."

"And so it follows that he may be using, temporarily inhabiting, or otherwise controlling this undead beholder."

"Possibly, or maybe some other equally despicable and horrible thing," Tarlin said, rolling her eyes.

Nathyrra smiled now, but continued.

"While the cessation of magic would indeed close the Reaper's doorway and stop the enemy from coming through to this Plane – what we wanted in the first place – we now have to deal with the possibility that what part of the Enemy that exists in this realm may be trapped as a sort of spirit in the body under his control."

"You mean, we go from having a nearly limitless Enemy bent on destroying all life, to a demon-possessed death tyrant bent solely on ending _our_ lives. Great," Dernhelm said acerbically.

"But, there is a chance that the use of such a device may end the life of the death tyrant as well, as magic forced the soul into its body in the first place. We would proverbially kill to ghouls with one spell."

They all rolled their eyes and groaned. For all she was beautiful, intelligent, and powerful, her sense of humor left much to be desired. Having spent her lifetime living in the cruel Underdark hadn't provided her the nuances necessary to be truly funny.

"A chance?" Dernhelm asked at last.

"Well, it is not exactly clear whether the soul in undead beings is connected magically after necromantic construction. That has been a hotly debated topic for many years but either no one is strong enough to dispel the magic in the host body without an Undeath to Death spell, or it is just not possible."

"You mean, you have meetings about this stuff?"

"Yes – not that I have gone to any of them – but I have read the proceedings. I believe it was Lord Ashrim from Arrabar that suggested the continuing magical connection between the soul and body of undead…"

She suddenly realized that everyone was staring at her mouth agape as if she was some sort of carnival freak.

"What? I'm sorry. I just don't go around bashing things on the heads like you do. I mean, your job is easy."

"Please," Enserric whined.

Though they were still guarded on the slopes of the elven domain – and mainly _because_ Fanuilous was undoubtedly also "guarding" them – Dernhelm set a watch. For three hours, Tarlin sat without incident and then woke Dernhelm for his after-midnight shift. It was the hardest watch to hold, sleep divided evenly in two, but this night he especially didn't mind. Taking a seat on a fallen log, his back to the thin bole of an aldreawood, he surveyed the constellations and enjoyed the peace of this place for the last time. The cool night air blew down from the upper slopes, filling his nostrils with the pleasing aroma of nuts. Sighing contentedly, he allowed his mind to wander, replaying the occurrences of the past few days, marveling at the sudden changes he had experienced.

He still couldn't believe he saw Tarlin smile without a hint of malice or a smirk at someone's misfortune, but a genuine smile, her sadness receding. And he _certainly_ couldn't believe he had come to the most hidden-of-elves in all of Faerûn and found, of all things, his mother who had been lost to him in all but name. Filling his heart with amazement, it also filled him with a great sense of hope.

All too soon, however, as it always seems with moments of happiness, his watch was over.

He thought about not moving, letting the others sleep, holding on to the dream as long as possible, but even he needed his rest after his encounter with the Bebilith and he knew that such memories would never leave his heart. Smiling once more and taking in the brilliant display in the welkin of heaven, he rose, and without a moment's hesitation, woke Nathyrra.

In the last watch before dawn, she stretched and yawned and then stood to take up a position next to the dying embers of the fire. Dernhelm curled up against a fallen log nearby, and let his mind drift off into sleep.

Aribeth walked out of the doorway of their house in the Beggar's Nest, her white leather suit accentuating every curve, every muscle in her perfectly toned body. He smiled as he reached out his hand to embrace her, her sensuous smile, warm and inviting, just as he had remembered. Her mouth opened as if to say I love you and he felt his heart swell as he always did at the sight of her.

And then he heard the doorway click shut behind her.

It was an odd noise. He had heard the doorway close every morning, but this sound was not that sound. So unusual did his subconscious consider it, that it drew his entire focus, his wife momentarily forgotten. As he reached for the door, a small shadow streaked overhead. Lurching upright, the image of his wife scattered, replaced by the darkness of their woodland camp.

In that vague way of dreams, the whole vision which seemed to span less than a minute – much too short a period to dream of his wife – must have been nigh on instantaneous, because his eyes were open in time to see a brilliant flash of light incinerate a crossbow bolt that sailed through the camp. Nathyrra's hands were glowing with a blue magic, energy twisting from her palms; her eyes were closed as if she were asleep. Suddenly, they snapped open and a series of gold and silver fireworks erupted from her fingertips and lanced into the night.

A scream tore through the sky off to his left, not ten yards distant, and as he whipped around, he could clearly see two trailers of smoke coming out of the darkness of the forest, illuminated by a harsh golden glow. And at the edges of that light, he could also see shapes moving among the trees, shadows receding into the distance as of a small host of men running scared. Tarlin and Daelan lurched to their feet, confused looks evident on their faces, hands scrabbling for weapons. The forest was dense enough to cause the sound to echo, and they were all standing before it died away into silence.

Nathyrra stalked off a little way into the wood illuminated by the glow from her hands, and it took Dernhelm only a moment to join her. Even without much heavenly light, he could find his way by his acute eyesight, and the faint whiff of burning flesh. There on the ground lay an elf, gold-flecked almond eyes staring open and unblinking up to the sky. They held a surprised look, undoubtedly for the two smoking holes the marred the otherwise unblemished suit of chainmail. Burning embers still flickered in the center of the wounds but no one made any move to stamp them out. The elf's silver-blue hair lay in a tangle about his sprawled arms and legs, twigs sticking from it as if the elf had taken a tumbled during the moment of his death.

"Fanuilous," Tarlin confirmed, shocked as she came up to join them.

"I knew his hatred ran deep," Nathyrra said, the glow dying on her hands, casting her face into shadow. "But not this deep." She turned away in disgust.

Dernhelm sighed deeply enough for all of them, but it was Tarlin that stole his thoughts.

"Racial prejudice is not limited to the humans it seems," she said softly. "And as it is with the humans, it is no less self-destructive."

Nathyrra just grunted and stalked back to camp.

"What should we do with him?" Daelan asked rhetorically.

"We bury him," was Dernhelm's reply.

Tarlin and Daelan nodded.

Performing such an act would show that they were above petty spite and revenge that the shortsighted elves no doubt expected of them; it would show all Fanuilous' friends that were certainly watching them right now.

Enserric was not so kind.

"Can't we at least loot the body first?" he queried.

It took them half a day to climb down the mountains of the elves, but they kept their pace easy, taking a last drink from the aromatic forest. At midmorning, they emerged from the trees, the plain opening to the northwest between the Forgotten Forest and the Graycloak Hills. Dernhelm had kept their route as direct as possible and it was a good thing too – else it was another taste of elven magic – for at the base of the mountain they came upon four picketed horses, just as his mother had suggested the elves would provide.

A thorough search of the surrounding foothills turned up no sign of elven guards. Frankly, he didn't expect to encounter any given their antics the previous night, and the others echoed his sentiment. In any case, they did not hesitate to make full use of the horses, as they would keep them well rested for the final struggle and avoid a needless waste of time.

The ground between the forest and the mountains was so gentle and even that they made over twenty miles by nightfall, almost reaching the northern edge of the Forgotten Forest. They did not press their luck as otherwise they would be forced to camp on the open plain – a proposition they did not relish as they were getting very close to the land of the Enemy – and Dernhelm led them into the outer fringes of the wood.

The oaks, walnuts, and shadowtops of the forest were huge, reaching one hundred thirty feet in height, their intertwined canopy shutting out all but the faintest starlight. This was not the only difference with the well-tended groves of the elves. This forest actually _felt_ ancient with a sense of history so profound that everyone "walked small," their steps carefully placed so as not to disturb the foreboding peace of this eldritch wood. As such, they made no fire, Dernhelm warning them about the guardian treants that zealously protected what was left of the forest from the encroachment of humans. He had only encountered wood-kin once before and in the High Forest, but it had been enough to educate him on their hatred – understandable as it was intense – of the bipedal races.

Thankfully, they passed the night unmolested if uncomfortably. So too did the horses, and many times Dernhelm had been awakened during his non-watch hours to calm them down. When finally morning dawned, to their further discomfiture, the greater light of the rising sun had little more luck at illuminating the forest floor, casting deep shadows about their camp.

They were eager to break camp.

After a quick breakfast they set off, rounding the northern edge of the forest, skirting the foothills of the Graypeak Mountains to the west. They kept to this edge of the plain to avoid the denizens that lurked in the Lonely Moor to the east – gnolls, bugbear, and huge bullettes – though it was not as direct a course. There was no certainty that such creatures may not range far afield from their normal haunts, as the gnolls had done. Granted they had been deliberately drawn to Dernhelm's encampment to test the mettle of the companions, but he couldn't afford to take such risks. Though they were acting as quasi-champions for the elves and should now be beyond such ordeals, the blind hatred of those like Fanuilous left him cautious about his dealings in this part of the world.

Shortly after noon, a series of massive ruins came in to view, standing at the crest of a hill that looked as though it had been artificially flat-topped, fully one mile wide and five long, stretching off to the northwest. The ruins stood at the southern edge on a raised, rocky prominence, guarded on three sides by sheer cliffs, and standing two hundred feet above the rest of the mesa.

"Ah, mighty Dekanter," Daelan said with a voice filled with awe.

Nathyrra was unfazed by his proclamation – never having heard the legends in the Underdark – but both Dernhelm and Tarlin sat their horses staring at it with raised eyebrows. Stories of this place had reached even the frozen North, but Dernhelm had never believed that he would actually behold it. Tarlin must have felt similarly, for she actually took off her helmet as if in reverence.

"How do you know of this place?" Dernhelm asked at last.

"Aside from passing it on caravan duty, I scouted the place with some of my clan when I was younger."

Dernhelm regarded his friend with a look of curiosity. Destruction – and not exploration – was Daelan's usual pastime.

Surprisingly it was Tarlin, not Daelan that told of the fortress' fortifications, in a voice filled with wonderment. "The castle was built in three sections: an outer bailey separated from the other two by a small saddle and spanned by a drawbridge, and the central bailey separated from the inner by another bridge of natural stone. With walls nearly twenty feet thick and thirty high, it was practically impregnable," she described.

Dernhelm was flabbergasted. "With all its legend, how is it that I have lived longer than all of you, except Nathyrra-" she nodded. "-but have never seen it nor can tell how many crenellations it has?"

Nathyrra laughed at his confusion. "You probably learned about it at some point, but the mind has a tendency to forget with age," she said, riding close enough to poke him in the ribs.

He gave her a look of mock anger and chuckled.

"All Uthgardt males are required to test themselves in a long quest of battle before they can be called men and gain the right to marry or have a vote. In this part of the world, any ruin or hole or wood is bound to have some horrible beasty lurking in it, and we came to Dekanter to find ours."

"And did you?" Dernhelm asked.

Daelan looked away for a moment as if lost in some memory – and also as if to mask some emotion – but he turned to fix Dernhelm with a calm eye.

"Indeed," he said. "The ruins held goblins, gargoyles, and all manner of orc-kin, the hated enemies of my people, and we slew all that came before us. In the innermost… bailey, as Tarlin put it, we encountered something we did not expect, a firbolg."

Dernhelm whistled through his teeth. Even when greatly outnumbered, the name was something to inspire respect or maybe fear. The strongest of all the giant-kin, they possessed no small adeptness for magic, and had intelligence above average even in comparison to humans.

"Such a creature does not usually consort with such brute beasts as orcs, but we could tell that his heart was evil. I lost four out of my six companions in the battle, but I won his weapon, having landed the killing blow."

Leaning forward in his saddle, Daelan showed off his trusty double-headed axe to good effect.

"I always wondered what an Uthgardt Red Tiger was doing with such a weapon!" Dernhelm remarked.

Daelan smiled heartily even as Tarlin rode up alongside him to pat his back.

"And you?" Dernhelm looked at Tarlin, not wanting to ignore her apparent knowledge. "How came you into such information?"

"I grew up in Phlan, remember?" her face had a neutral expression and Dernhelm caught the hidden meaning in her words. He nodded. "We had been raided so many times by orcs and the like that being a soldier was not simply about knowing how to wield a sword. We had a school where they taught the _history_ of soldiery."

"I know that," Dernhelm replied. "I _have_ been _there_."

"Almost before I was born, that is," she said with a wicked smile and then laughed heartily when his eyes went wide and his mouth opened. Nathyrra and Daelan were equally surprised, not having come fully to grips with her change in attitude. Nathyrra smiled while at the same time giving her a look that said she was not sure that the original Tarlin – surly and acerbic – was better.

"Why is everyone making fun of my age of a sudden?" Dernhelm asked.

"Because it has spanned so long that it makes for an incredibly easy target," Daelan tried his hand at jocularity.

"Get to the point," Dernhelm added gruffly.

"Alright," Tarlin said, clearing her throat behind her hand. "Dekanter was part of the kingdom of Hlondath, last of the Netherese city-states, which stretched from the Graypeaks to the desert of Anauroch, and north into the Fallen Lands. It was built to guard the kingdom against the goblin and orc hordes of the Graypeaks, even as the kingdom was dying from the advancing desert and the phaerimm magic in the east.

"It stood as the last remnant of that country for more than four hundred years after the kingdom officially fell, subsisting off of whatever food could be grown on the plateau. Eventually though, driven by the temptation for money or precious artifacts, the orcs lay siege to the city, and ground it slowly into dust. A small dwarf force out of Loudwater tried to break the siege, but they were too few. Soon after they were beaten back, some goblins found access to the inner bailey via a garderobe chute and the city quickly fell."

"Leave it to goblins to want to climb up a privy," Daelan said distastefully.

"So it fell about six-hundred and fifty ago?" Nathyrra asked.

Tarlin nodded.

"It has weathered the years quite well," Nathyrra added.

"Would that I could walk its hallowed halls," Tarlin said, and then added with a smile. "Now that Daelan has been so thoughtful as to clear them out."

The half-orc smiled.

"Unfortunately, an even greater legend awaits us to the north," Dernhelm said, and with one brief last look, he spurred his horse forward. After a moment, his companions did likewise.

They camped that night in the foothills of the Graypeaks, a mere day's ride from the edge of the Fallen Lands. They could have gone several more miles in the fading light, but that would have put them astride the Black Road by nightfall, and Dernhelm could not risk the unlikely chance of encountering a Zhentarim caravan. Ever protective of their "secret" passage through the Anauroch, if they even glimpsed someone on the horizon, they would go completely out of their way to chase them down for fear of spies.

The passed the night easily, each companion taking a watch. When Nathyrra woke Dernhelm for the pre-dawn shift, she remarked how this was now the second night where no one had tried to kill her; it left her feeling depressed. He chuckled and took his position.

At first light, they rode out onto the plain once again and crossed the Road within two hours, Dernhelm scouting ahead to make sure the way was clear. Passing to the west of a small, stunted wood, they kept near the shelter of the mountains, the high peaks to the north marking their destination like a compass.

About mid-evening, the flat path climbed up over a low rise, angling with the mountains to the northeast, the sun sinking behind them, casting lurid streamers on the underside of the clouds above. Motioning his companions to hold back, Dernhelm ascended the rise, his horse stepping lively. When he reached the crest, however, he stopped. As his companions joined him, they too also stopped, eyebrows rising with surprise bordering on disquiet.

There below them, in a long depression stretching east from the mountains as far as the eye could see lay a tangle of rotting vegetation, separated by wide pools of stagnant water supporting what was probably a noxious miasma given off by the decay. Practically twin it was to the Marsh of Chelimber, but something about it made it seem fouler, a dark foreboding that settled over them like a pall.

Dernhelm shuddered, an involuntary chill running up his spine causing him to convulse mildly. Glancing at his companions, he could safely surmise that they too were experiencing psychosomatic effects as they surveyed their "home" of the next few days.

They had come at last unto the land of the Enemy.


	17. Chapter XVI: Failures of the Past

**Chapter XVI: Failures of the Past**

It was with great distaste that the companions set free their horses and entered the swamp. At Chelimber they expected merely to cross the edge of it at the narrowest point, but here their goal lay about twelve miles from their current position, nearly in the exact center of the bog. They had no concern for the horses; undoubtedly elven magic would lead them safely back home. However, no elven magic would help _them_ traverse this wide fen.

They set up camp on the low rise, a short cliff at their back, giving them the best vantage point for anything that may threaten. Tarlin suggested setting a double watch – something they had not done since the Crags – and everyone agreed. It meant less sleep overall, but a tiny bit of tired would be better than a massive helping of dead.

Surprisingly, they passed the night unmolested and rose to meet the dawn with suitably refreshed hearts, that is, until they looked again at the road ahead of them. A barely imperceptible change from dark-colored to light-colored "fog" above the swamp was the only difference between night and day. As they ate their cold breakfast one of them would glance toward the marsh and sigh, eliciting a collective exhalation as each other cast about to identify the source of their discomfiture. Their unease was completely warranted.

Their first full day painted an excruciatingly detailed picture of the swamp's construction and the character of its inhabitants. They were stepping gingerly between two islands of solid ground separated for all purposes by a small, drowned saddle, when Daelan lost his balance and fell into the stagnant pool to his right. In any normal swamp, this would have elicited some sputtering as he inhaled some of the nocuous water and made for an altogether miserable day of traveling in wet clothing. But, this was no ordinary bog.

Dernhelm's travels had introduced him to some of the most varied landforms and topography on the surface of Faerûn, from the patterned ground near the Great Glacier to the dissected, ancient volcanic atolls of the Moonshae Isles. But he was completely unprepared to see a half-orc disappear beneath the surface of the water so that not even his flailing arms appeared overhead. It was like being on the surface of Selûne, whose cratered visage evinced small ridges of land separated by deep calderas, buried impossibly beneath muck and algae and water that erosion could not destroy.

The surprise was no less complete for the half-orc, but for different reasons. When Daelan found himself dropping like a stone into swamp water deep beyond reason, he had to fight against his sudden panic. He forced himself to concentrate on pushing down with his hands to propel him back toward the surface. This worked beautifully for the first stroke and acted to arrest his descent, allowing his feet to impact slowly with the bloated body of some slime-covered creature. Nearly gasping in surprise, he pushed off with great force, feeling the body sag and squelch below him even as he rose back toward the surface, his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen.

When he crossed the boundary between marsh and sky, he inhaled deeply, sucking in big gulps of sickeningly rank but life-giving air. His companions all reacted instantly, Nathyrra reaching out with her staff to draw him to shore, Tarlin and Dernhelm holding on to her waist to act as counterweight. With two kicks of his feet, Daelan clasped at last onto the moldy swamp grass of their little island and exhaled noisily.

But the measure of comfort Daelan enjoyed at being in contact with solid ground was quickly replaced again by surprise at the serpentine monstrosity nearly two feet in diameter that coiled around his still waterlogged mid-section. It was too much for him. With a cry of shock and anger Daelan disappeared beneath the surface of the swamp, dragged down by the denizen of the deep.

The three companions looked at each other with shock and horror, at a loss for what to do. The water was too dark to see effectively and the pool into which Daelan had been dragged too wide to know exactly the location of the half-orc and his attacker to be of any real assistance. But they could not leave him to his fate. Dropping his pack and greatsword quickly, Dernhelm drew a long dagger, and prepared to jump into the mire.

It was unnecessary.

With a cry and a splutter, Daelan erupted from the surface of the swamp, his arms locked in a titan-like embrace around the creature, fingers clasped and muscles-straining. Having lived its whole life in the isolation of the swamp, it was likely that the creature had never before encountered an orc; regardless, it was perfectly believable it had never encountered one of Daelan's ferocity borne in part by being infuriatingly soaked. Even when its head came out of the water – ten feet distant – a crocodilian snout atop a snake-like body, polygonal scales colored brown and separated by wide, black bands, it was evident its only concern was to get away. Perceiving this, Daelan gave it one last, muscle-flexing, side-squeezing heave before he let it go. The creature slithered quickly across the water and soon was lost in the haze.

In a few short moments, Daelan was laying on the solid ground of the island, having backstroked to "shore" and this time being completely extricated from the fetid water. When his companions looked at him with a mixture of horror and awe, he merely said: "I _hate_ snakes."

"I hate being wet, too," Daelan grumbled as they trudged in a single-file line from one rotting vegetated mound to the next.

Dernhelm said nothing. While it was unlike the huge half-orc to complain about anything, everyone could echo his sentiment, including their veteran leader. The fen seemed perfectly constructed to provide maximum discomfort.

About them, the fusty miasma obscured everything beyond thirty feet, confounding any attempts at choosing a more passable route and preventing all but the barest approximation of which way lay north. The islands, such as there were – soggy mounds commonly less than ten foot square – were spaced far enough apart that all connections between were drowned, forcing them to wade for much of the day, sometimes up to their waists. And the air, a humid mass that should have been warmed by the decaying vegetation, hung still and listless, removing even the barest ability for them to dry as they moved.

Thus, despite frequent halts, they traversed a little over three miles in eight hours – by Dernhelm's reckoning and not because of any significant change of the obscurant sky – and were thoroughly exhausted. When at last they encountered a water-logged and lumpy blotch of land nearly twenty by twenty, a veritable marsh continent, they threw themselves upon it with much joy.

Nathyrra was the first to voice her extreme discomfort.

"I think I would have rather chosen Lord Belros over this, this… this soup!"

Dernhelm caught himself nodding in agreement. He was so sodden!

"At least then we could have died quickly and warm!"

Daelan smiled.

"Speaking of warmth," Tarlin added, her circlet stowed in her pack and her hair hanging limp where it was not plastered to her face. "Could we not start a fire to try and drive away even the edge of wet?"

Daelan's ears pricked up for he had been squelching in his boots since his altercation with the huge marsh snake, but he looked less than hopeful. Around them, they had seen no wood that was not rotting and buggy and he knew even Dernhelm's skills at "roughing it" could not make that come alight.

But Tarlin had other ideas and fixed Nathyrra with a stare.

Thinking the same thing, the drow smiled at the possibilities and rubbed her hands together as she occasionally did before preparing a spell.

Dernhelm, however, scowled at the prospect.

"Starting a fire in this swamp would be like a beacon for every monster in the entire area and may alert the Enemy to our whereabouts. You think getting sleep while being wet and smelly is bad, how about being warm and dead?"

But Tarlin and Nathyrra would not be moved.

"Even the sun can't penetrate farther than I can spit so I think a 'beacon' is too strong a word. If the Enemy does detect us, he would never be able to find us in this, nor would he want to, and I am too wet to argue with you," Nathyrra said with an air of finality and a mock-childish grimace, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

Tarlin added with a grin, "I am sure you strong boys can protect us."

Dernhelm rolled his eyes even as he raised his hands in acquiescence. Drawing Enserric – who began to chide him about being too afraid to use the box from Miyeritar – he walked to the edge of their island. Daelan in turn, shouldered his great double axe and, grinning from ear to ear, took up a position on the opposite side between two decaying mounds.

Soon a crackle could be heard even as their shadows were cast onto the enfolding gloom and a heartfelt sigh escaped Nathyrra's lips. A soft murmur suggested Daelan had done the same, though the half-orc had tried to hide it.

Dernhelm, however, tensed in anticipation.

He fully expected to hear the noises of shambling forms descending on their refuge, their huge bulks lurching out of the darkness, gargantuan moths come to circle.

"_It would only be fitting considering the nature of this place,"_ he thought darkly.

For many minutes he scanned the mists.

When the expected onslaught did not occur and his backside had noticeably increased in temperature, he relaxed just enough to retreat closer to the fire's warm embrace and glance at their "protected ladies."

Nathyrra and Tarlin had laid out their bedrolls around the fire which hovered at ground level, feeding off of nothing visibly combustible. Dernhelm smiled finally.

"_As well have an eldritch glow to go with a ghoulish swamp,"_ Dernhelm quipped to himself.

Obvious that he and Daelan had been elected to the first watch, Dernhelm resumed his scanning of the darkness. The grueling hike of the morning dulled his mind enough to prevent errant thoughts or daydreams and focus him on the task at hand, and the restricted size of their sanctuary meant that he would have little likelihood of being caught unaware. He only wished he had Kern to keep him company.

They had been forced to leave the shaggy juggernaut behind – he would have _certainly_ strained Elminster's teleportation spell – and Dernhelm lamented the lack of his heightened non-visible senses. And his sheer muscle.

Several hours ticked by without sound or incident, passing into true night, and the sky became a dark, sickly green. Dernhelm glanced at the girls, lying as nicely as they could amidst a horrid smell that somehow none of them could get used to, and watched as Nathyrra wrinkled her nose unconsciously. It would soon be time to wake them for their turn at watch.

Daelan was reclining against one of the larger mounds on their tiny island, his axe propped against his right leg. He wore a small smile, a recuperation of his normal demeanor now that the fire had driven off a lot of his dampness, and he tapped his fingers against the axe haft soundlessly.

The silence was eerie.

Here, in the midst of the mire where their greatest Enemy likely lay in wait, the only sound that could be heard was the light bubbling and squishing that accompanied all swamps.

"_Leave it to normality to set my teeth on edge,"_ Dernhelm thought.

And, as if in response to his thoughts, their island swarmed to life.

The mound against which Daelan reclined, suddenly lurched upward, two coiling, verdant tentacles reaching out to ensnare the startled half-orc. In seconds, a huge mass nearly eight feet in diameter and connected to the tentacles, erupted from the foul water in which it had lain submerged. Without turning, Dernhelm knew that behind him one of the lumps was moving too.

"Woo-hoo!" Enserric shouted.

Dernhelm's retort was only an oath as he turned to hack at the shambling mound, putting himself in front of the ladies who had been startled awake by the noise and were rapidly trying to ascertain the situation. His steel bit deep into the flesh of the monster with a wet slap, slicing off a hunk of decay which flew splashing into the darkness.

"Ugh! This better not cause me to rust!" whined Enserric.

The creature, however, showed no notice. Extending tentacles to wrap around his legs – or at least to force him backward from their small perch into the sucking mouth of the swamp – only a deft leap saved Dernhelm from being entangled. When he landed on the weakened ground, however, he stumbled and fell. Belying its bulk, the rotting heap quickly moved in to devour him. Opening what Dernhelm presumed was a mouth, a hole nearly three feet across like a barren spot in a cultivated tree ravaged by deer, the tentacles writhed around it.

But then Tarlin was there, having shaken off all semblance of sleep, a look of utter rage on her face. Once, twice, her sword lashed out and the tentacles spun off into the fetid water causing the creature to bellow in either pain or anger. Helping Dernhelm to his feet, they faced the horror side by side.

Little more than fifteen feet across their islet, Daelan fared even much worse. Taken completely aback by the fact that the creature he had rested upon for over three hours had come to life to kill him, he had been unable to avoid the grasping tentacles which knocked him to the ground and was now nearly covered by its slimy bulk. The weight of the creature was too large to fathom and as it crawled over his legs, only the soft and yielding swamp vegetation prevented his legs from being crushed.

But his current predicament also prevented him from using his double axe. He was forced to revert to the Uthgardt tiger claws he always wore at his belt, but had not drawn in defense in over a decade. Grabbing the wooden handle, he struck at the creature repeatedly, but the daggers just sunk into its festering hide to no effect. And then the creature opened its mouth and he knew he was in trouble.

Nathyrra, throughout the entire ensuing debacle, was still trying to shake off sleep. When startled awake, even in the middle of a stinking swamp, it is much easier for a person to react if all they have to do is swing a sword. At least, considering her spells require careful somatic incantations, that's the way she would see describe it. It came then as no surprise that her actions were delayed, much to the dismay of her companions.

Finally she managed to gather herself to evoke the words of a powerful spell. And the island was introduced to her particular flare for the dramatic. A massive lightning bolt struck the creature squaring off against Dernhelm and Tarlin, piercing it with a foot-thick ribbon of energy that disappeared into the mire beneath and set it to bubbling. For Daelan, given his contact with the swamp beast, she struck it glancing blows across its back, nineteen electrical discharges intended to score its hide like a farmer furrows his field.

But the effect was not what she expected… or wanted.

As the bolts passed through or across their intended targets, instead of igniting under the onslaught of tens of thousands of degrees of pure energy, the creatures seemed to grow stronger, wounds all but healing as they surged toward her companions. Her sable skin paled.

"Shit!" Daelan bellowed as the creature moved farther up his body, tentacles feeling the outlines of his armor as if to rip it from his shoulders. Tarlin and Dernhelm were pressed backward by this sudden renewal and nearly bumped into the stunned drow, their tiny island all but occupied by piles of animated vegetable slop.

Shaking off her startlement, Nathyrra readied the only spell she could think of. Raising her hands she shouted "Ril-yar-ovar-ma-sespech!" And both creatures blossomed with fire.

Now the previously amplified creatures took notice. Shrieking otherworldly howls that could only be interpreted as pain, the mounds lurched away from the companions, seeking the security of the swamp and a way to extinguish the fire. Having spent their entire existences within the confines of the marsh, they had encountered creatures many and vicious, but never had they been so injured. As they squelched off into the water at tremendous speeds for their size, it soon became apparent that the magical incandescence would not be quenched.

At about forty feet away from their island, the mound that had attacked Daelan ceased to move, becoming an eerie funeral pyre surrounded by fetid water. And for just one moment it drove back the clinging miasma. Huge, lumbering forms were outlined in the mist, several over ten feet in height, bearing what looked like huge trees while others appeared crab-like with mighty pincers. Noises flittered out of the swamp, moans that bespoke of undead or roars of great beasts, and the companions blanched.

Luckily though, it soon became evident that most creatures were moving away, seemingly giving the island – and Nathyrra's magic – a wide berth.

Dernhelm fixed Nathyrra with a disapproving eye, but then his expression slid into one of black humor. He couldn't fault her for she had saved their lives, but he could make her feel horrible about her mistake. And it helped to calm all their fears. As Tarlin helped a bruised and battered Daelan back to his feet, Dernhelm bent down and scooped up a bit of vegetation from the surface of their island.

"Plants, Nathyrra. Plants!" he said with mock anger, gripping the muck in his fist. "Not lightning, fire! Plants and fire! It just makes sense!"

Dernhelm and Nathyrra kept watch for most of the night, allowing Daelan time to rest, as he was the worst for wear. Tarlin relieved Dernhelm in the last watch of the morning, and by the time the thick air started to brighten, they all were awake and ready to set out anew. Ready, that is, if solely wanting to be done with this journey could be so considered.

They had passed the night unmolested and Dernhelm suspected that most creatures were now thinking critically about whether to engage the small party. Darkly, he assumed that any creature bold enough to do so would undoubtedly have muscle to support its brazenness.

Whether because this thought was commonly held or because discomfort drove them on, they moved much faster than the previous day, traversing over five miles by twilight, stopping this time on an island that measured nearly one tenth of an acre. At first they eyed it disbelievingly and then suspiciously, cautiously appraising any slight mound or undulation in the grassy surface. When nothing immediately presented itself, they hurried to the center of the island.

Nathyrra again built a small fire out of necessity, after which they dutifully scanned the surrounding murk for signs of life, and Daelan and Tarlin sat the first watch. They kept themselves busy by poking every heap of vegetation with axe and sword.

Several times throughout the night, a large form splashed onto the edge of their sanctuary into that zone of insufficient light where imagination trumps reality and growled at the party or tore at the earth. They were quickly driven off by angrily cast torrents of fire underscored by half-elven chuckling. And so the second night in the Fallen Lands was passed.

Upon waking on the third morning, somehow they all instinctively knew that nightfall would bring them to the lair of the beholder and most likely to the home of their Enemy. Maybe it was a change in the air, an increase in the sense of foreboding that emanated like heat from the rotting vegetation. Maybe it was some unconscious sense of distance confirmed true by a brain that argued with heart over the common sense of progressing. As they had yet to encounter anything that could be considered resistance aside from the body-wearying ooze of the swamp itself and two carnivorous plants, they proceeded with no small trepidation and a conscious locomotion.

When the sun reached the western horizon – after only a four mile journey – at last they spied man-worked stone, partially sunken and grime-covered blocks that heralded the southernmost guard tower of the castle canted wildly to one side and broken three quarters of the way from its base. Hunkering down at the base of the tower near a large mound of vegetation – which Daelan thoroughly poked – they cast about for signs of defense. But the swamp was silent and unmoving aside from the ubiquitous exhalation of noxious fumes and the requisite occasional bubble.

"They couldn't go easy on us and send an army of ogres, could they?" Dernhelm said silently with a roll of his eyes, but his companions understood him completely.

After sharing a mirthless chuckle, they systematically checked the tower, guarding against the possibility that the enemy may lay in wait within – or that they might require it for defense. But it became quickly evident that the decrepit state of the tower precluded both thoughts.

Running his hands along one of the blocks near the massive base, Dernhelm pushed away enough of the vegetation to reveal dilapidated granite undoubtedly of once unimaginable quality. The blocks were all of a size not bearable by even the largest oxcart and exhibited enormous crystals in a perfectly uniform arrangement. But it was at this latter scale that weathering won out. Pink minerals the size of goose eggs all but crumbled beneath his fingers and irregular blobs of quartz yolks threatened to tumble out. He could almost feel the entire structure shudder as if the mere presence of his hand threatened to topple it.

At this discovery, the level of unease that crept across their faces only increased.

Dernhelm sighed and glanced at the hill.

The only thing left to separate them from their presumed quarry, it took an act of will for them to flatten themselves – with much distaste – and belly-crawl to the summit.

The land below them opened into another wide fen dominated not by pools of stagnant water – there existed a modicum of those to maintain the oppressive feeling – but by the ruins of an immense castle. Blocks of incalculable weight toppled into an amorphous pile that stretched over a quarter-mile. And its ruination seemed complete. Not more than two blocks lay atop another, precluding any cover or defense as Dernhelm's companions fearfully expected they'd find, and the stones themselves exhibited that metastable state between wholeness and dilapidation they had discovered at the tower.

Even the shadows seemed empty as they danced against the stones of the castle, flickering blankly in the twilight. A huge pool of darkness lay near the base of the hill, nigh impenetrable as it was blocked by the topography. The name of this place seemed at that moment wholly appropriate.

Scanning the horizon for a long while for any signs of life, Dernhelm could not help but sigh again.

They all stood.

"_Did we come to the wrong place?"_ he wondered. He glanced at Tarlin who seemed to share his thoughts. She had been so sure and her certainty had convinced him.

Nathyrra and Daelan were looking at him with quizzical expressions – they would follow him anywhere – wondering what their next move would be. He could sense their complete annoyance at the prospect they had come this far without sign of the enemy, and more that they would have to return through it to get to the next possible hiding ground.

Dernhelm could understand their sentiment.

Scratching his beard, he started to consider the alternatives when a thought struck him.

"Where is the death tyrant, the undead beholder that the Hill Elders warned us about?" Dernhelm asked aloud.

His companions looked at him with raised eyebrows not understanding his intent.

Dernhelm waved his hands, arms bent at the elbows, and then scratched his sideburns as his mind rapidly processed his thoughts.

"If the Hill Elders are so sure it was here, then where is it? Should it not be lairing here in the center?" he asked.

"Could it not be anywhere… or even gone?" Daelan countered in his gruff voice. "The Hill Elders may be out of touch with the goings-on of the world secluded as they are in Evereska."

"True," Dernhelm admitted. "But when it comes to magic, they are usually on top of things. Consider Lord Belros."

But Daelan was not convinced.

Tarlin on the other hand seemed to get his implications.

"You're suggesting that if the creature is not here, it may be hiding and its absence indicates its presence?"

Dernhelm had to think about the serpentine logic of her statement but at last he nodded affirmation.

Daelan scratched his head.

And then Nathyrra – who had said nothing during the interchange – suddenly pointed toward the pool of darkness at the base of the hill and gasped.

Following her finger, their eyebrows rose even as they went on guard, hands moving to weapons.

"The darkness," Nathyrra stated and then paused.

When they all turned to regard her, she realized from her lack of explication she had all but kicked a hornet's nest in their taxed nerves and quickly went on to explain.

"That is shadow, the pure stuff of shadow."

They all looked at her with mouths agape, eyebrows raised.

"What are you talking about?" Tarlin asked, giving voice to her companions' thoughts.

"Shadow," she said again. Throwing up her hands in exasperation when no one moved or changed expression, she took on a lecturing tone, but kept her voice low as if afraid someone might overhear. "The darkness there is not ordinary shadow, but Shadow. Pure stuff of the Plane of Shadow."

At this they all regarded the empty space with a newfound interest but nothing untoward presented itself.

"How can you be sure?" Dernhelm asked, but kept his voice low as well.

"Because of my attunement to magical things. Things in this world – all things – have a magical essence. You normally can't sense it unless you specifically look for it, like being aware of your own breathing. Stuff of the Shadow Plane lacks all of this sense, and for something so big, I can sense nothing coming from the majority of that region there."

And then it made perfect sense to Dernhelm.

The size of the hill and the angle of the sinking sun could not cast a shadow so large.

"The entrance to the Plane of Shadow," Dernhelm all but intoned, coming to the doorstep of his Enemy at last.

And then Nathyrra gasped again erasing all thoughts.

This was a gasp of utter surprise bordering on alarm, not the sudden exclamation of discovery.

"It comes," Nathyrra all but gritted past clenched teeth as she squeezed her eyes shut. Sweat – more than could be accounted for by the humid swamp – suddenly broke upon her brow, and Dernhelm cast about wildly to identify the cause of her distress.

And then he saw the death tyrant hovering behind them. Ten eye stalks surrounded the central eye of this behemoth floating as a putrescent mass nearly fourteen feet in diameter. Four of the stalks hung useless and limp, flapping as the creature moved, but it was the living, writing eye-tentacles that drew his attention. Only the tips of the top three active stalks could be seen moving above its bulk, but one positioned high on the left broadcast a thin green line which lanced toward them like a spear.

Striking an invisible wall of force not five feet in front of them the green energy was deflected.

How stupidly unobservant they had been!

Only Nathyrra's fast action and what Dernhelm presumed was a hastily erected spell-shield had saved them. He could only speculate the magic she had diverted from the searching eyes around the middle of the creature's right side.

And then Nathyrra started to slide backward toward the north-facing slope of the hill, her feet digging for purchase into the soft earth.

"He's pushing me!" she all but shrieked. "I… may not… be able… to hold him."

At Nathyrra's obvious plight, Tarlin raised her sword but Dernhelm stayed her with a hand.

"Go outside her shield and it will likely kill you," he said almost dispassionately, his teeth gritted tightly as he fought with himself in decision.

"Could we use the device?" Daelan asked, alarm plain on his face. Tarlin looked at Dernhelm.

"We can only use it once!" he shouted.

Nathyrra grunted incoherently, but her feet had regained some purchase.

"What if this _is_ the Enemy?" Tarlin asked.

"But the doorway-"

At that moment the creature's central eye opened and their decision was made for them.

Nathyrra stumbled forward as if suddenly all resistance had disappeared and the creature made a quarter-turn. Its right eye stalks stood suddenly straight and the companions found themselves flying backward through the air.

Hitting the ground with force sufficient to knock the wind from them, Nathyrra had just enough time to raise her hands in front of her nose before her face was illuminated with lurid green streaks of light. Daelan, who found himself slumped at her side quickly rolled against her under the protection of the seemingly inconsequential barrier.

Dernhelm and Tarlin were not so lucky.

Having been thrown somehow out to the sides of the creature they found themselves staring at each other beneath its bulk, bearing looks of near total surprise. Self-preservation fortunately proved an efficient master of instinct and they quickly regained a guarded crouch as they attempted to take stock of their predicament.

The monster's gaze was locked on Nathyrra – the only enemy with magical power and therefore its greatest threat – its central eye was closed but the lateral stalks continued their barrage unabated, green light competing with sheer magical energy to crush her and Daelan into nothing.

Dernhelm and Tarlin had no chance of gaining the scant protection of that spell-shield, nor would they have dared, yet in the open as they were they risked exposure to its deadly gaze. The creature's bulk hovered not four feet off the ground in front of their eyes and both could see the other hesitate.

"Get as close to it as you can!" Tarlin suddenly shouted and stood, her body moving as if she were pressed against it in a lover's embrace. Practically without thinking, Dernhelm had done the same.

It was pure inspiration.

At such close proximity, the death tyrant could only use its lateral stalks which were intently trained on the drow. Hearing the rasp of Tarlin's steel, Dernhelm drew Enserric who remained surprisingly, yet intelligently quiet. And then they struck.

Swords biting deep, they carved two holes into the rotting flesh along the creature's midline. Shuddering violently the creature screamed, a deep-throated moan of undeath, and opened its central eye. Nathyrra's shield disappeared with the fading of the eldritch spear of light and both she and Daelan braced for the expected impact. But it never came. The creature spun suddenly in mid-air and struck out at Dernhelm with a gaping mouth rimmed with huge teeth.

Dernhelm put up his sword in defense but the creature barreled straight past, catching him with its lower jaw and sending him sprawling.

It had taken them all by surprise. It was impossible to believe that a rotting ball nearly fifteen hundred cubit feet hovering in midair could move so fast. And their surprise nearly proved fatal when the left lateral eye stalk unleashed the green spear of light directly at an unprotected Dernhelm. Scant inches from certain doom, the jade energy struck the edges of something in space even as Dernhelm rolled to the side, and only the outer edge of his right shoulder guard – and a sizeable patch of earth behind it – dissolved into nothingness.

Nathyrra was quick to her feet as the eye turned to face her and her spell-shield met its renewed attack. Seeing her friends' strategy rejuvenated her and she held her ground despite being pummeled by blows of force. Daelan was at her side, axe held ferociously, waiting for any moment of weakness to plunge it deep into his enemy's carcass.

While undead may be extremely powerful creatures, they are usually remarkably simple, able to form such basic thoughts as "attack," "destroy," and "kill," relying on sheer strength and resistance to magic. Tactical strategies exceed the bounds of their limited intelligence and it proved so with this beholder, as the party soon realized. As long as Nathyrra stood before it, its focus was on her, leaving Dernhelm and Tarlin room to hack at its sides. When it turned to bite at them, Nathyrra protected them from the onslaught of its eye stalks even as Daelan attempted to hew it in two. Several minutes of this reduced the giant undead eye to an irregular floating, weeping mass.

Even creatures of limited intellect could sense their imminent destruction and respond to the hopeless of such a predicament and so it made one desperate gamble. Opening its central oculus with the drow in front, it lashed out with the eye of pure force knocking Daelan from his feet as he stood just beyond the range of the anti-magic cone. The stalk of disintegration turned to Nathyrra even as the large eyelid began to close, but it was cleanly severed by a laughing Enserric.

The creature wailed in desperation. Even its central eye could not save it. Caught halfway to closing as it squinted with pain, the lens collapsed under a furious jab from the butt of Nathyrra's staff that she had magicked to her hand from the ether. The companions hacked it apart until it lay motionless.

With the cessation of the undead beholder's death rattle, silence again settled over the swamp, broken only by the sound of labored breathing. The darkness at the foot of the hill had deepened, but this time truly from the effects of the intervening topography. The sun was now just barely halfway above the horizon.

They approached the pool of darkness at base of the hill with the utmost care, Nathyrra directing them to skirt its edges. Unfamiliar as they were with the workings of the Plane of Shadow – even Dernhelm who had spent near a decade in its confines – and more, the carryovers of the Reaper's demesne, they gave it wide berth. While it was impossible to gauge the exact extent of the portal to the Shadow Plane they sensed that it was enormous. Given this, Dernhelm was hesitant to employ the Evereskan anti-magic device for fear "they would not get it all." The term "large region" as the Hill Elders spoke was sufficiently vague to cause concern now that they were in the presence of the gateway; even Nathyrra postulated that destroying the gateway completely may be impossible, though unlikely, from anything but a direct assault on its center, such as it was. And so around it they went.

Nearly half an hour later, they came upon what could only be considered a reentrant, an indentation in the invisible line of Shadow, and it was here that Nathyrra suggested they should use the device. Off to one side of this salient and fully in the Prime Material Plane stood a small, block structure, what looked like an out-building of the ruined castle, canted wildly to one side yet standing with door buckled yet intact.

They paid it no mind. They had one singular objective.

Setting down his pack, it took Dernhelm only a moment to withdraw the orb, lighting all of their faces with a cheery azure glow. It was the first time he had touched it – dared to touch it lest he accidentally activate it – since placing it there in Evereska, aside from casual brushes as he shifted the contents of his pack. Now that it was before him and they were here within reach of the Reaper's gateway, he couldn't help but stare.

And offer a prayer of thankfulness to Ao.

His friends paused similarly. Daelan crossed his arms on his chest, but his countenance betrayed nothing. Next to him, Tarlin stood a faraway look in her azure eyes nearly matching the color of the orb as she beheld it silently. Even Nathyrra's eyes seemed to look beyond it as she considered the importance of this moment, or sent a silent prayer to Eilistraee. No hungry look of magical curiosity lit her face as it had done on the Evereskan mountainside. It was poignant.

And then of course, his thoughts turned to Aribeth.

With a silent oath for himself at his hesitation, he shook his thoughts clear and held up the orb. His movements breaking the moment, all heads turned his way as they realized what had just happened. How easy to celebrate on the eve of victory?

Looking down at the glowing ball, Dernhelm ran his hands over its surface. Not a seam suggested itself to his touch. It seemed flawless and of one solid piece of a material that had the weight of solid glass. It was even cold like glass, stealing the heat from his hands as he held it. Turning it over several times he searched for patterns or writing, elvish runes left by its makers dead now ten millennia. But to his eyes, nothing appeared except the constant azure glow. He held it up to the light. Turning in a circle so as to hold it between him and the fading sun he looked for any change. He even passed his hand behind it but nothing interrupted its luminescence.

"What are you waiting for?" Nathyrra asked suddenly. Having sensed the continued existence of the portal and no sudden separation between her and elemental sensations of magic, she looked at him as if she something was amiss. Tarlin and Daelan both raised eyebrows, curious as to the reason for her question.

Dernhelm said nothing, bringing the orb back in front of his chest.

"Why haven't you activated it yet?" Nathyrra pressed.

He couldn't answer. Well, he _could_ answer but didn't want to, hadn't even considered it until this very moment or else he would have been sweating blood. He tried to keep his features calm as his mind started to do terror-filled somersaults but the drow was too perceptive.

"You don't know how to use it, do you?" Nathyrra asked.

Dernhelm blanched at the question and as Tarlin and Daelan looked from one to the other, their faces became pale with open-mouthed gapes as if they were about ready to faint.

"Is this true?" Tarlin all but stammered.

"Give me that," Nathyrra said annoyed and reached out to touch the orb.

What happened next surprised everyone, even the magic-accustomed drow.

When her hand contacted the blue surface, a sound like a lightning bolt shattered the stillness of the swamp bottom and Dernhelm nearly dropped the orb in surprise. Daelan and Tarlin jumped back but Nathyrra was bodily thrown through the air and only sheer providence caused her to land on the narrow peninsula of Prime Material. Clutching the orb under his arm Dernhelm ran to her aid nearly twenty feet distant, his face ashen and bright with alarm, as his companions stepped out of apparent harm's way. It was unnecessary. In the seconds it had taken to close the distance, she was already rising to dust herself off, heedless of the smoke that rose from the offending hand. She was shaking slightly.

"Are… you… okay?" He stammered as any sane person would, considering the discharge of energy he had just witnessed.

A completely incongruous smile graced her face as she regarded him, her eyes all but popping from her head. She was laughing.

"Okay? I'm great!"

Pushing past the startled half-elf, she moved with an almost springing step as she wandered back over to the site of her displacement. Two lines tapering to points in the soft ground suggested her feet had attempted to retain purchase as she was blown as if before a hurricane. "I'm just glad I got my shield up in time." Her voice was nearly sing-song.

No one could utter a sound, so complete the confusion from human to half-orc, and so she found herself forced to continue.

Considering her enthusiasm – discordant as it seemed – it wasn't hard.

"I've seen protections and counterspells in my day that could vaporize an ogre, but _never_ have I seen something like _that_. When I realized at the last second what was about to happen, I put up my shield. Only something truly _amazing_ could have thrown me _that_ distance!" Her voice dripped with exhilaration.

"But _why_ did it happen?" Tarlin beat her friends to vocalization though she still stared wide-eyed.

"You mean, why did it hurt me and not Dernhelm?"

Dernhelm nodded almost dumbly, but he still clutched the orb as if its proximity added safety.

"Simple," she smiled. "All surface elves hate drow.

"Just before my hand touched the device, I was struck by an instinctual warning that the orb may be rigged against me, but my mind was unable to conceive how such hatred could have been formed over ten millennia ago. You see where my assumptions almost got me."

When she finished, her friends still stared at her open-mouthed, and she realized how futile it was to explain her revelations… and elation. Grabbing Dernhelm by the wrist – of the handing not holding the orb – she changed his focus.

"_You_ have to use it," she said.

Blinking, he gazed at her and then down at the orb.

"But how… why?" he began and then stopped, as his rational mind took over to assess the situation.

"Because its elven magic meant for elves," She replied.

Pragmatic Daelan overcame his shock shortly thereafter and as he thought about their predicament, his left cheek turned up as in a growl.

"How could you _not_ know how to use it?" he asked firmly.

"I'd imagine," Nathyrra began in his defense. "That the _elves_ probably don't know."

"_What_?" Tarlin queried, finally engaging herself in the conversation. "How is that possible? They're a storehouse of magical knowledge."

"True, though outdated magical knowledge," She chuckled, but Tarlin was having none of it. "But we are dealing with a device of anti-magic, an anathema."

"And think about it," Dernhelm added, seemingly oblivious to the rising tension. "This is a device that they wanted to forget about since its creation probably nine thousand years or more since any of them were born."

"But why didn't you think about this before?" Daelan barked.

Now it was Dernhelm's turn to be annoyed. While the half-orc's question was valid, the second revelation of his failure made him snap.

"I'm sorry. When the entire mission was to get 'this object' and find 'that gateway,' I was so concerned about the vagueness of the endeavor that I didn't think to stop and say 'Does this thing come with instructions?' They just gave it to me. I assumed its use was obvious."

Enserric decided at that moment to chime in. "Can I try?"

"Shut up!" They all nearly screamed in unison.

"Well…" he started to ramble, but they ignored him.

"So what are you going to do?" Daelan said, folding his arms.

At the lack of 'we,' Dernhelm blanched but then he gritted his teeth.

"_I_ am going to stand here and figure this thing out," he replied and, pointedly ignoring him, turned to face the sun, gone but the final rosy color to the sky. The darkness around him, real and magical deepened as expected, but it also seemed to take on a more sinister cast as if waiting expectantly in the hopes that Dernhelm would fail.

"And what are we supposed to do?" Tarlin added with a voice betraying annoyance.

He opened his mouth to offer a retort but then thought better of it, given this _was_ his failure, and instead, sighed. With a herculean effort to take out most of the sting, he said, nearly over his shoulder, "Look around. Guard me or something."

"From what?" Tarlin asked casting about as if to further indicate they were all alone.

Dernhelm gritted his teeth.

How frazzled they had all become.

None of them had ever talked this way to each other – well, not since Dernhelm had had that tête à tête with her in Evereska – and it was a sign more of frustration and discomfort than true anger, but it was telling. And now that Dernhelm realized what was happening, it weighed heavily upon him. It was perfectly logical why he didn't know no matter how tenuous that made their success, but it was a hard thing to accept, eliciting such unconscious ire. And this in-fighting only made it harder for him to whom belonged the failure.

Thankfully, Nathyrra, who had not lost her excitement at being pitted against such powerful magic and surviving, decided at that moment to chip in.

"You know, as with all stories of legend, it is at this moment, when the hero is concentrating, and wits are strained to the utmost, that something pops out and goes 'I'm a monster, raarrrrgh.'" She made a great motion as if to suggest a lumbering dragon, her mouth open as if to consume them all with fire.

Seeing the diminutive drow female raise her hands up like talons, stand on tip-toes, and roar was so incongruous with their present predicament that the tension evaporated. Shoulders relaxed, the charged air became still, and the cords of disquiet were severed.

Magic. And she had yet to cast a spell.

Beyond the hill, the sun died and stars became visible while the air grew even more still about them. Dernhelm glanced at his companions.

Daelan, caught halfway between a grin and the sucking of sour grapes stood stiffly, but his eyes were already scanning the darkness for signs of life. Tarlin did likewise as if realizing there was nothing else for it.

Nathyrra, however, fixed Dernhelm an inquisitive stare as he held the orb, but he gave her a cool look as one would to a member of the opposite gender when disrobing that said 'Look away. There is nothing to see here.' This one time he didn't need her magical curiosity to disrupt his contemplation.

He tried to calm himself so that his complete focus was on the task at hand and not on group friction or on the importance of this action. Distraction was something that none of them could now afford.

But this was easier said than done.

As he stared at the orb, questions flooded through his mind both seminal and mundane. How was the device to be activated? Would the device be truly able to seal the Shadow gateway? What if they were attacked in this indefensible spot surrounded by material of potentially fatal character? How could he even be sure it worked? Would it work for him?

At the last, he grunted and shook his head to clear it. Logic was needed, not fear, and he set himself to build a defensible foundation upon which to anchor his thoughts, resting upon a groundwork of gritted teeth.

Nathyrra had said that only he of the group could use it, and this made sense: the elves had created the artifact before the dawn of humanity for defense of their homeland and it was impossible to believe that it would function for one of a kin to goblinoids. Here also, the fact that the Evereskans had given it meant that they knew or suspected that it would work for the group, for him, and their acceptance of his mother was a clear acknowledgement of his sanguinal purity.

The device _must_ work for him.

But how did it work?

Holding the orb in front of himself like some astrological charlatan he concentrated upon it, staring into the azure glow as if the fierceness of his gaze and the urgency of his need would provide revelation. He had no idea what to expect or if even this action would yield results, but he had no other obvious course. He stared at the orb without blinking until his eyes began to dry and ache. Never moving, he let himself be carried deeper into the bluish glow, a silent prayer to Ao echoing about his skull, amplifying the force of his will.

To say that nothing happened for a long while was an understatement. For nearly half an hour he stood this way until the rosy glow of twilight faded into the muted silver of dusk. Tarlin and Daelan had shifted positions in this time, facing outward toward the slanted stone shed while Nathyrra stood almost at his back, arms folded in her robes, head slightly down as if in contemplation. And no one spoke.

That is until Tarlin could bear it no longer.

"Well? Have you learned anything, o fearless leader?" she said with a voice that was half humor, half irritation.

Dernhelm half-turned, his concentration lost – such as it was – and let his lip curl in annoyance.

"Just wait," he replied. "When I find something, you'll be the first to know."

Then he fixed Nathyrra's back with a look that carried a hint of roguish grin.

"Don't bother me unless a dragon pops out and goes 'raarrrrgh.'"

Nathyrra shook from silent laughter.

Staring back at the orb, he let himself get carried away for a second time. Minutes ticked by as he stared into the glowing ball and he suspected that its afterimage would be permanently burned into his memory like a child's first look at the sun. His eyes might glow blue for eternity. But still he looked.

And then his mind began to wander. What were the elves like the first fashioned this device? Were they like the Hill Elders that he had met? Had the elves changed much in all those years? They were strange thoughts, given the iron quality of his will, but they did not alarm him.

The device was fashioned as a last line of defense, the Hill Eldest had said. But what were they defending against?

The azure glow suddenly seemed to deepen, and his pupils constricted, but he gave it no mind.

What fear must they have felt to have even dreamt of fashioning a device of this nature?

The device flashed and the azure color began to swirl, undergoing a coruscating metamorphosis of cerulean to sapphire.

What threat could possibly have required such a need?

And then he saw it.

Daehir stood at the top of the westernmost hill of Evereska, the hilt of his sword gripped by his left hand until his knuckles were white and his sword belt strained to break free. Behind him, an obsidian monolith slowly settled to the edge of the bowl under the careful ministrations of a hundred Miyeritaran wizards. The Tower of Vilshire was almost complete. He could tell the level of their progress by the clamor of many voices, but it was not something he could watch.

He had never had any place for magic even considering his heritage and it was not because he disbelieved its power. The ability to create matter or energy seemingly out of nothing had always made his skin crawl as if it violated the very fabric of nature. Better, he believed to trust in the tangible, pursuits governed by the strength of his will and body. The sword, he couldn't help but think, was the only thing in which he could put his faith. In the magic-infused land, it was a view shared by few.

Maybe that was why the Hill Elders had given him command of the western marches, the outermost line of defense against the horrors of fallen Miyeritar. Promote him as long as it kept him and his near-heretical ideas away from the city.

It didn't matter. His allegiance was to his homeland and his singular duty was to prevent the Illythiiri from completing its destruction.

And the last few days had tested that duty to the utmost.

The drow had overwhelmed their far outpost at the ford south of the Great Western Marsh not two days ago, sending beyond the souls of four hundred elven warriors. It was a stunning defeat. And it was only sheer providence that his hippogriff cavalry arrived in time to stop the invaders from reaching the sparsely defended western ramparts. The battle took nearly two hours, and that with a legion at his back, for fell magic rained out of the black elves, afflicting his men with wasting sicknesses. Had such an army reached the hills of Evereska, everything could have been lost.

Evereska. How unusual a name. More a ragtag band of homeless elves living in an armed camp than the high-sounding "fortress home." The Hill Elders did the best they could in organizing a common defense, but they squabbled so much over the nature of their magical protections, Daehir was amazed the coalition hadn't already fallen apart. It had taken three years for them to agree on the diversionary illusions in the mountain passes and another two before they decided on exactly where to place the _mythal_. But he surmised that all that bickering had now changed.

Two days ago, they had learned the true depravity of the Illythiiri.

At the Fastness of Indoron, where they had expected survivors, they had found only abominations. The drow had enacted a black magic, an incantation of their vile goddess Lolth, turning many of the defenders at the fort – many of his friends – into misshapen hybrids of elves and spiders. The merging did not promote survivability as they found many such hybrids dead before they arrived, entrails scarring the ground as if their blood was now acid, but those that lingered wretched about in agony, their moans filling the countryside for miles. Only through an extreme act of will did any of his subordinates venture in to the haunted fortress, and that only to end the suffering of their former comrades.

Maybe that was why Evereska was abuzz with the completion of the obsidian tower. Never had they moved so fast on such a project that Daehir could only assume it was for defense. A low, crunching sound met his ear, signaling the final rest of the obelisk.

He turned in spite of himself.

Maybe it was the sound that drew his gaze like a lodestone and maybe it was just simple curiosity; he had never witnessed the transportation of such a large object and certainly never something of pure, stunningly rare, obsidian. Maybe it was the crunch of footsteps as someone approached his small outpost, scattering loose granite as they sought purchase on the steep slope. Maybe it was the sound of wings overhead.

"Uh, Dernhelm," a voice said with the hint of alarm.

The colors swirled.

"And why would Sharlin of the Miyeritaran wizards need my help?" Daehir said as he reclined in one of the sturdy-backed utilitarian chairs in the Tower of War. One leg was casually thrown over an arm as if he was completely at leisure, not speaking to the second most powerful wizard in the entire city.

He had been recalled of a sudden under the order of the Hill Elders without any inclination as to purpose. And immediately he had come, riding Fellric into the very heart of the city as one would only in times of direct assault. No one complained. In fact, they stressed so much urgency that he had assumed that their defenses had been compromised.

But when at last he had been led to this room and had found a cadre of wizards waiting, saying only that they had need of him for an assignment, he couldn't contain his anger. And so he sat in a most disrespectful way trying to be as discourteous as possible.

The white-haired wizard merely harrumpfed as if expecting such behavior from one of the Mountain Sentinels and folded his hands on the table. But his eyes blazed with anger.

"The Tower of Vilshire has been completed. It marks the position of one of last and principal lines of defense for Evereska."

"Congratulations and thanks are yours," he said with all sincerity. If they could protect his people, then even he could see their worth. But that didn't mean he had to like them. "And this involves me how?" he said with an exaggerated sigh.

The wizard's eyes became slits.

"The key to the tower revolves around an orb of emanyte, fashioned at great expense." Daehir's eyes widened. Emanyte? Of all materials in the known world, this was the rarest, used to construct the most powerful of artifacts. Even the _mythal _was formed of this precious mineral. But the wizard continued as if this was unimportant. "Its activation requires someone of your particular… worldview," the wizard said, the last word coming with a hint of distaste.

Daehir was taken completely aback. Forgotten was his posturing as his brain tried to find the meaning of the old elf's words. Him? Why of all people would he be needed to use such an artifact? In the pantheon of elven power he stood as one of the lowest, being part of the civil guard. Surely they couldn't need _him_! He didn't like magic, couldn't even trust it…

And his mind caught.

Was that it?

They needed him to use a magical artifact _because_ he distrusted magic.

"Tell me more," he said and sat forward, eyes eager.

The old elf placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Uh, Dernhelm," he said.

It was a bold move. One born out of a desperation he would never have guessed, could not have anticipated given the progress of the war of bodies and blades that was his daily life. The Illythiiri had done more to threaten them that even the elf-spider mutants had heralded and when the high wizard Sharlin had informed him, he had lost – perhaps forever – all color from his body.

And that was why they had chosen him.

No one was more committed to the preservation of this place than Daehir Istmaernon, despite all its faults, and yet no one was as staunchly opposed to the employment of magic. He was a contradiction, seeking to protect a culture of diversity that held magic as its central tenet.

"Well, nobody is perfect," he said to himself as he traveled down the lonely hall of black basalt several hundred feet below Evereska.

Evereska. How that name would make sense if he was successful.

No. Not _if_. When.

As he walked – not hesitantly as one would expect – the vesicles scarring the walls stared at him like so many eyes, witnesses to something never before attempted in the history of the world. He was steadfast, but the sphere of emanyte in the scrip at his side still hung like a weight.

Nearly a quarter mile he walked down that magic-carved corridor, a straight line leading away from the city center and the protection of their precious _mythal_. Only a few feet had ever passed this way before him, wizards all as they sent whole sections of earth and rock into the void, but now he was alone. The thought of what they planned was too terrifying to even watch to see if he was successful. Too frightening to even be in the same room as the lifeless block of priceless mineral once he had started on this path.

"We'll know," they had said, and he believed them.

Eventually the tunnel ended at a small doorway and here Daehir paused. Running his hands along the door, he bent close to it listening. His caution didn't make sense considering he was the only conscious being in a mile of his position, but decades on the battlefield had tempered his nerves. He never liked being taken aback or caught off guard. Not even by a wizard's pronouncement that had elicited a wide-mouthed gape and eyebrows that had vanished beyond his hairline.

Hearing no echo beyond the door, Daehir stepped through into a vast cavern lit by glowing orbs hanging from chains high above. So large was the cavern that the orbs could not illuminate the floor, but he had the sense that an entire legion of hippogriffs could have fit within its walls with room to spare.

And then he saw it.

In the center of the floor was a waist high pillar of pure obsidian, concave at the top to receive his sphere of emanyte. Clamping down on his faltering will he walked up to it but he let his hands run over its surface as if finding the smallest imperfection would have suggested the folly of this cause.

It was unblemished.

High-wizard Sharlin had told him it would be, had said that of all things they had created, this was the most perfect, the most damnably perfect. If they were going to send a message, it needed to be without defect, the sternest of warnings to advance at your own peril. And being in the vastness of their message, their desperate gamble, he had to believe it.

Withdrawing the orb of emanyte, an azure blue ball half a foot in diameter, that reflected the light smartly from its vitreous surface, he set it carefully onto the obsidian cradle.

And at that moment, the echoes of battle came to his ears.

Were the drow attacking?

Part of him wanted to run to join in the fray; anything to be free of this place and what he must do.

He ignored that part. It was here, here, that entire coven of cowards had assured him, that the greatest blow in the war would be made.

And make it he would.

Gripping the ball with both hands, he concentrated on that one singular thought. The only incantation he had ever cast – would ever cast, considering.

"The line has been drawn here," he said aloud, and in the giant cavern his voice echoed.

But the echo was not his voice. It was gruffer, more filled with anger and pain and suffering than he had yet known. A voice of a younger elf, a familiar voice, but not himself, like the echo of his offspring in the far off future.

It was hard to ignore, but ignore it he must.

The shouts grew louder as if they were impinging on this very hidden sanctum, but he ignored them too.

"A dividing line between surface and subterranean, light and dark, magic and madness."

Hands touched his back. Scared hands that said they needed him, needed his sword to drive off the invading hordes, another body to be cast upon the wall of hopefulness, the wall of despair.

"The last bastion of the desperate, here I give myself: my thoughts, my essence, my fears and desires, all to save my love."

An animal bellowed in his mind, a hiss merged with the booming echo of size. Enormous size.

"Until time ends or need passes, I will remain, guardian of this place. The anachronism of the future. The greatest contradiction."

Echoes of clashing magic reached his ears.

Was he too late?

"Let only the true of heart and blood approach. For to them only I hold no fear, lest they have need."

"Dernhelm!" someone shouted.

"Reach out to me and I will respond."

As the azure orb exploded into brightness, light emanating from within, he felt everything, every fiber of his being become nothing.

And then he had it.


	18. Chapter XVII: Count All Things But Loss

**Chapter XVII: To Count All Things But Loss**

Dernhelm's eyes blinked for the first time in what seemed like a decade, water rimming his lids and being absorbed in an instant like moisture in a desert land. His mind reeled at the images he had seen, at the things in which he had participated.

It was almost too much for him to comprehend.

But the last message burned upon his eyes far stronger than even the azure glow, which had reached a blinding brightness.

He had the answer.

And they had a serious problem.

Tarlin stood off to his right, sword and shield to bear and her face struck with the most ashen expression he had ever seen. Daelan was beside her, ears laid back against his head like an angry dog, muscles straining as he held his giant double-axe before him, like he was standing against the very heart of a maelstrom.

And Nathyrra?

She stood as still as a tiny porcelain doll, arms spread wide and uplifted as if to embrace, but bearing the weight of a massive shield of pure energy. Only the slightest shaking and the rivulets of sweat that cascaded down her face gave away her fatigue.

Before them stood an abomination.

Before them stood the Enemy.

In his sixty-two years he had only encountered six dragons in person and only two of these, Klauth and the less-than-fully draconic Vix'thra, had he been forced to fight. In both cases, he had had significant help and unbelievable luck.

It therefore came as a great surprise when he was confronted with not one, but two dragons at the exact same time. That is, a dracolich formed out of the remains of a double-headed, mature adult, black dragon.

The dracolich stared down at him with four glowing red orbs, forward-swept horns looking so much like bony spears, sail-crested heads glowering from the ends of its thirty-foot long, ten ton body.

It looked down at him even as its magical assault shattered against Nathyrra's shield – the largest Dernhelm had yet seen her create – seeking to crush her into oblivion.

"Help…" was all she was able to say, her voice coming breathless as every ounce of her will went to keeping them all from being annihilated.

We meet for the second and final time, Dernhelm, my hated enemy.

The voice seemed to emanate from nowhere, twin sets of vocal cords having long since rotted into dust, booming over the swampy plain.

At the sound, sweat started to break upon Dernhelm's brow.

It wasn't from fear – or maybe it was, dragon fear or real getting past all his magical protections, all his preparations – but all he could seem to do was just stand there rooted in place clutching the orb and staring at the skeletal body.

His will shuddered.

The sphere before him still glittered its fantastical blue, shades swirling within its confines, but in the half-elf's eyes, its intense reflection began to fade.

"Dernhelm…" Nathyrra said, her voice shaky. Daelan and Tarlin stood by, still as statues.

But he had no mental room left for any of them.

Will you be strong?

Dernhelm could give no answer.

Or die squealing like all those you loved? Like your female?

At this, Dernhelm's eyes went wide and his mind reeled.

Aribeth. The thought came without warning and without the ability to counter, no matter how he had tried to train himself for this moment, to ignore the lies of the enemy.

Was this the truth?

Was Aribeth dead?

In his heart of hearts he could not believe it, but once in his thoughts it was hard to dislodge.

Neverwinter was a fitting name. Never will it see another winter.

And then the dracolich laughed, twin heads chuckling, a sound like the stones of a sarcophagus sliding shut with the boom of finality.

Dernhelm nearly blanched at the sound, but still he stood, rooted there holding the orb. He stood there thinking about Aribeth. Oblivious, he could not see Nathyrra bending toward the ground as if under a great weight.

How many more will die when my passage here is complete? How many more to feed my hunger?

Aribeth.

Thoughts of her lying somewhere broken and dead filled his vision, just as it had in the dark dreams when last he had confronted the enemy.

Aribeth. His sole reason for living.

Gone was the girl with the coppery skin.

Gone was the girl with the sun that would shine off her auburn hair, shine in her powerful brown eyes, shine off her sculpted muscles.

Gone was the girl that could make his heart race by the mere sight of her.

Gone was the girl with which he had shared so many touching moments.

Where he had reached out to place his hand over her belly…

Over the product of their love…

Over the child that would never be…

At the last, his will shuddered, but this time it lodged firmly into a spark of rage.

And then a still small voice, spoke into his heart. It was an elven voice, a familiar voice.

"The line has been drawn here…" it said aloud, he said aloud, and in the flat bottomland of the swamp, with nothing around for miles but broken blocks and a miniscule hill, his voice echoed.

But the echo was not his voice.

He reached out through the orb and the voice responded.

Light the world had never seen decimated all traces of darkness in an area many times more immense than the great city of Waterdeep. For a moment, the Fallen Lands glowed as brightly as the sun. The vast region the elves had suggested completely dwarfed description, the cavern below the Tower of Vilshire becoming a mote of dust in comparison.

The light was blue.

Not blue like the light of the sky on a cloudless day, but blue. Pure blue. Maybe it was the essence of the word blue, encompassing everything from cobalt to beryl.

And the light banished the darkness.

The whole of the gateway, from shore to far shore melted beneath the azure ocean of light as they stood upon their peninsula of Prime Material. And with it went all magic.

Nathyrra shield was washed away like a leaf in a hurricane along with the punishing spells of the dracolich.

So too, went the magic from their accoutrement.

Dernhelm could actually feel it being swept from about him, leaking from armor and sword like an open wound.

On and on the wave of light traveled, ripple after ripple scouring everything down to the barest hint of life, stripping away even the basest creation of sorcery.

The dracolich bellowed in that light, a ten ton demon that reared up on its hind legs to scream, battering its wings against the killing force that literally tore its essence in two.

The light rolled on for what seemed like an eternity, blinding them so that they threw up their hands in a vain effort to protect their eyes. It rolled on and on in a second that lasted forever.

But then the light died, the blue draining away as quickly as it had come until only a small area about them retained its azure hue.

And at last they were able to open their eyes.

Six stood where only four humanoids had not moments before and the two new figures bore looks of open-mouthed amazement. Looks that matched the astonishment of the companions.

One was a human clad in robes of cinereal grey, robes of the finest character picked out in thread-of-gold, with a long cowl that hung loose down his back. His dark brown hair was cut short and combed forward about a round head tapering to a narrow, pronounced chin. His wide eyes were deep-set but beheld a constant humor as they darted about and his thin lips began to curl into a lopsided smirk.

The other was an elf, but unlike any Dernhelm had ever seen. Most full-blooded elves kept their hair long, flowing loose or tied behind their necks, but this elf's hair was cut short, no more than four inches long and curled backward to stand little higher than the tips of his pointed ears. His eyes were of the most piercing blue standing starkly against his silver skin and sable hair, and they betrayed a serious, deep wisdom. His clothing was of the finest cut but utilitarian, a suit of black cloth cut squarely without ostentation above well-worn, travel-stained leather boots.

The skin of his hands was rough and calloused. A trained warrior, this was something Dernhelm noticed immediately, and the elf's bearing bespoke of incredible calm, and strength of will and body.

It was Daehir.

For just one moment, their eyes met and the elf lord nodded. It was a perfect mixture of appreciation and respect as to an equal.

And then the moment passed, replaced by the realization that before them still existed a dracolich.

And it was angry.

Mere seconds had elapsed since the destruction of the gateway and the appearance of the two men.

Mere seconds that meant everything in the world.

With a roar of anguish and hate the dracolich bore down upon them.

Dernhelm and Daelan leapt out of the way for there was no cover to be found, and Tarlin crouched on the ground behind her shield.

The two men, mere apparitions of their former selves, moved not in the slightest except to observe the situation with a transparent detachment.

And surprisingly, so too did Nathyrra.

Her eyes had a faraway and forlorn look. It was as if the very cords of her will had been cut with the cessation of magic and blown to the four winds. It was as if she couldn't accept the fact that the dracolich still lived. She simply stood there, regarding the dracolich with a blank stare as if completely oblivious to the world around her.

She simply stood as death came down on her from above.

Her three companions cried out in disbelief as one of the dracolich's skeletal heads clamped down upon her and bit her in half.

Of all of them, Daelan was the first to his feet, the first running at the serpentine neck that flexed even as it tore the drow apart, even as the other head moved to regard him as a speck to be blown away. With a cry that spoke of a fury unmatched, the great double-axe raised in his massively muscular arms high above his head and descended into the outstretched neck of the beast with the sound of crunching bone.

Had it been any other creature, its destruction would have been total.

Had it been any other creature than a hell-spawned dracolich.

The creature recoiled, bellowing with rage and pain, and the neck that held the drow flopped to one side, the vertebrae that supported it nearly severed. The other head twisted about as the body reared up in shock. A large leathery wing shot out involuntarily right into the path of the offending half-orc. Daelan had no chance to avoid it. As he saw it sweeping toward him, he braced himself, but the blow, buoyed by a pain indescribable, struck the half-orc with immense force. He flew nearly thirty feet into the air to land a hundred paces distant with a thud. His axe clattered to the ground near the dracolich's feet.

Shaking its intact head as if to retain consciousness, the dracolich regarded Dernhelm and Tarlin with a critical eye even as it moved to shield its injured member. It backed away slightly, as if to create some distance with its assailants in order to recover, but neither Tarlin nor Dernhelm would allow it such a reprieve.

It need not have been concerned.

Though both charged it recklessly, hacking at the dragonhide as if by sheer force of will they could pummel it to the earth, their now plebian swords could not hope to injure it. Aside from Daelan's singular strike, their worst wound amounted to no more than chips of bone.

But they would not be deterred.

Many times one of them went down only to be rescued by the steel pinpricks of the other. When the dracolich flipped Dernhelm onto his back with a sweep from one of its bony wings, Tarlin was there, harassing the face of the injured head hoping for a lucky strike that would poke out its eyes.

The dracolich went wild with fury.

With a flick of its tail, Tarlin went flying and the dragon followed after her with a stream of acid breath. Missing her by scant inches, she collided with the ground hard enough to take away her breath. The dracolich moved in for the kill.

Dernhelm tried to intercept, but the creature's bony body stood between him and his friend. He braced himself for the sickening vision that was about to unfold.

But what happened next took him completely aback.

As the dracolich's head descended, he saw Tarlin pull her shield atop her with a superhuman effort. In her other hand was her tiny crossbow.

The bow twanged.

And the creature's head exploded.

Dernhelm awoke to the sight of the stars swirling in his vision and a marching band playing havoc with his ears. His thoughts careened wildly about his battered cranium and for several long moments, he could do nothing more than lay there and breathe. When at last he had recuperated enough to offer a coherent prayer to Ao that he had survived, he flexed the muscles in his body to assess his injuries. A thousand tiny cuts screamed in protest and he could feel blood oozing from a large gash in his left leg.

He had had worse.

Gritting his teeth to force himself to ignore his discomfort, he tried to sit up. It was then that he realized that he had no feeling in his right arm, his sword arm. Suppressing his panic, he drew a long knife from his belt with his left hand and cast about for Enserric, that is, for his old greatsword. It was stuck in the ground to his left, but it was too short to be whole.

He should have guessed.

The blast of Tarlin's tiny crossbow bolt had been enormous, catching him completely off guard – something that happened too often of late. He hadn't even had time enough to turn away from the explosion before the shockwave hit him. All he could remember was being flattened to the ground and seeing the dracolich tumble nearly end over end into the distance.

He hoped it was dead. By all rights it should be, taking the force of the blast directly in the face, but he couldn't take chances, wouldn't take the chance that any of the creature could get away. Not after what it had done to Aribeth. Not after what it had done to Nathyrra.

Staggering to his feet, he sheathed his knife and drew the remains of Enserric. Two feet were missing from the blade. It didn't matter; it would be enough. He would _make_ it enough to see his enemy destroyed or at least defile its corpse.

Daelan lay a dozen feet from him, the half-orc's body still lying in the position into which he had been thrown. For a moment all Dernhelm could do was stand and watch him but he didn't see Daelan's body move with breath. He couldn't believe that his juggernaut had been felled, not by such a… trivial blow… but he had no time to see if the he was alive.

So too with Tarlin.

Her shield lay upon the ground in the center of a large piece of scorched swamp, waves of smoke and unnatural heat rising from the ground, and her legs poked out beneath it.

Her shield.

When he had first seen it what seemed ages ago in Neverwinter, it looked as if it could beat back the fires of a thousand hells, the flames rising along the top edge as the burning sword of Tempus shouted defiance. But gone now was its magic, gone before the heat of the blast had struck. And for all the crafting of Marrok and Durga, bereft of magic, it was nothing more than a thin piece of elaborate steel. A piece of bent and twisted steel.

The dracolich was a crumpled wreck a dozen feet from the point of impact, shards of bone sticking from its carcass like a porcupine. It had been blown onto its side and huge rents occupied the intervening ground between its supine bulk and Tarlin. Undoubtedly, they were from a feeble attempt from the dracolich to maintain purchase, but they gave the appearance that the creature had been slid across the ground by the force of the blast.

Dernhelm stumbled over to it and poked at it with the remains of his sword. Bones shifted and creaked, but the mass that was the creature did not rise.

Was it still alive?

"_It's not like skeletons breathe,"_ he thought.

He cautiously approached the creature's head. When they had dispatched Vix'thra, their first concern had been to destroy the phylactery for fear they would have to face an endless supply of skeletal bodies. Here, he assumed that if a phylactery were present, any chance that it still existed to preserve his Enemy's remaining essence would have been washed away by Daehir's orb.

But destroying a dracolich was no easy task. A singular Vix'thra still had required a quartet of magical abuse to bring it down, ending only when they had comminuted its skull. And now he had to do it with a two-foot slab of jagged steel.

The neck of its right head ended in a hole, that is, the cervical vertebrae connected to what Dernhelm could only assume was the braincase, but here the skull ended. Glowing red eyes and slathering mouth had simply vanished into a cloud of bone dust.

As he edged around it, he caught sight of the other head. Though the neck had been nearly shattered, the head looked hale and the eyes were dark.

The eyes were dark.

"_A dracolich with no eyelids can't have unlit eyes and still be alive," _Dernhelm couldn't help but think.

But his body refused to relax.

He went back and checked what was left of the other head. The wasted bones greeted him as they had previously, missing jaws unable to gloat at the pain they had caused him. Picking up a chunk of what may have been a rib – how it had gotten near the face he knew not – he was about to throw it at the corpse out of spite, when something caught his eye.

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no! Not freaking possible!" he dropped the bone and ran as fast as he could for his bag.

Though a dracolich is the most powerful of all necromantic creations, it is at its most basic, still nothing more than an animated corpse, a mere skeletal shell of its former glory. It can never heal, never regenerate aside from taking another desiccated body, never regain the world of the living. It is the single greatest balance to the lure of immortality.

And in Dernhelm's hands, that universal truth was being violated.

Never in the history of the world had a creature of pure shadow stuff co-inhabited the body of extant dracolich. Never before had the Shadow Plane been wedded to the Prime Material.

Dernhelm hit his bag even as he heard the creature stir. It was the sound of bone grating on bone but on a scale larger than any doctor had heretofore heard. Turning with extreme trepidation, he expected to suddenly see a red-eyed behemoth ready to reduce him to an effervescent pile of half-elven effluence. Instead, he witnessed the bones of the right wing flatten out, the wing radius connecting with the thumb even as the phalanges regained their normal splay.

Only one desperate chance remained to him and he had little time for rational thought. Sticking his hand into his rucksack, he withdrew the carved wooden box from Miyeritar.

Aside from his two companions and the reanimating corpse of the dracolich, he was alone, the two ghostlike figures having disappeared back into the ether from whence they came. Gone too was the blue afterglow of Daehir's orb.

But, he surmised, the ability to use magic had returned.

From the moment he had witnessed the level of terror in the war-wizard's eyes as he described the purpose of the sphere of emanyte to Daehir, Dernhelm had suspected it was only a temporary effect. The thought of life without magic was anathema for the elves even in the face of their wholesale destruction. The Illythiiri undoubtedly felt the same – Nathyrra had all but gone limp when he had used the orb – and so even the unlikely possibility of permanence was enough to drive them into hysterics. Further war had been avoided with a bluff.

On that supposition, Dernhelm made his choice. Only three outcomes were possible. The continued prevention of magic would mean his death – he had quickly accepted his inability to defeat an even partially healed dracolich – as would a non-functioning box. Should the device work – he had to assume then they would _both_ be dead.

As the cervical ribs reattached themselves to the neck that Daelan had worried, Dernhelm could only think of Aribeth. But it was not in the way he had before when his mind feared that she was gone. It was in the perfect way that comes to all people who commit themselves to a sacrificial death. It was his _true_ life that he now saw at the end.

Before him she stood in radiant splendor, an ethereal visage of copper, with brown eyes that smiled at him from the depths on the day they were wed. And in those eyes he saw understanding, acceptance that would transcend the grave to see them reunited in the kingdom of Ao.

With the box jammed under his useless right arm, his left hand moved to press the button. The dracolich was shaking as if trying to stand and Dernhelm caught the faint ruddy glow in its bony orbits. The sound of rasping bone echoed across the swampy bottomland.

And the faint sound of Tarlin whimpering.

When Dernhelm heard it, he nearly dropped the box in surprise. He had feared for the worst, assumed it, but now that he was confronted with her continued existence, he had newfound hope. He also had an even greater determination to destroy his Enemy as the sounds of her suffering filled him with hurt.

He glanced back once in her direction, a last glimpse of his friend with whom he had come through so much.

And was greeted by her fist.


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Though sunlight from a clear blue sky fell down upon Dernhelm's face, stars lit up his vision. He grimaced.

"I wonder if other old people are unconscious this often?" he voiced aloud.

A throbbing pain in his right eye caused him to move his hand to massage it, but it was unresponsive. His left didn't feel much better, but at least it did feel, and he covered his face with it to block out the wearying sun.

And then he remembered.

Surging upward with a cry, every bone in his body aching in protest, he rolled onto his left side and then to his knees. His vision swam but he fought against the enfolding blackness.

The battlefield was not as he remembered it. Gone was Daelan, the large half-orc no longer slumped in defeat. Gone too were the halves of Nathyrra. Tarlin's shield still lay in the midst of the blasted ground, turned now on its face as if cast off, but Tarlin was not beneath it. She lay just beyond Dernhelm's feet, the box of Miyeritar under her outstretched sword-arm.

He crawled over to her. Gripping her by the shoulders, Dernhelm turned her onto her back to face him. Her azure eyes were closed as if sleeping, but her skin was cold and pale. A small smile still graced her face. Brushing her light brown hair from her face as best he could with his only working hand, Dernhelm held her to his chest.

Beyond her, the dracolich was a complete ruin. As if all sinews had been severed, not one bone was connected to another. A butcher could not have done it better.

"A butcher is better than he deserved," Dernhelm said.

"Agreed," came a voice behind him. A familiar voice.

Dernhelm turned quickly, but not out of shock. With Tarlin's fist, he believed that all surprise had been driven from him forever.

Elminster stood casually, leaning upon an ornate staff as if he had been there for quite awhile. Considering the man's idiosyncrasies, it was perfectly believable that he had.

"I am sorry," Elminster said as he surveyed the girl in Dernhelm's arms. "I wish I could have come sooner."

"How did you come to be here at all?"

Elminster gave him a look of surprise coupled with complete humor, as if Dernhelm had asked a ridiculous question.

"Your actions called out to me like a beacon!"

"My actions?"

"Your use of the Evereskan artifact. You don't believe the utter cessation of magic over a region the size of a country could go unnoticed, do you?

"I bet that you have terrified wizards as far away as Thay! And the Cormyrian Regent probably laid an _egg _of steel."

But Dernhelm was not laughing.

"Er," Elminster coughed. Sometimes his age precluded him being receptive to other people's feelings. "I came as soon as I could. It didn't take me long to figure out where it had happened and who had done it."

"Where is Daelan?" Dernhelm couldn't help but ask, though his mind was clearly focused on Tarlin.

"Back in the Temple of Tyr in Neverwinter. It will be a long road, but Neurik thinks he will recover."

Dernhelm smiled.

"I always said a dragon couldn't defeat him, and I hate being proven wrong."

"Yes, I'd imagine so."

"And Nathyrra?"

"Her body was also returned to Neverwinter. Nasher has agreed to have her interred in the Great Graveyard in the Mausoleum of Lords."

Dernhelm's eyes grew slightly wide at the mention of this tremendous honor but then his brow furrowed in thought.

"How long was I unconscious? It was night last, before midnight."

"Ten or twelve hours, then."

"And you, why didn't you move me in all that time? Several trips to Neverwinter and securing Nasher's approval must have taken awhile."

"True," Elminster conceded at his friend's astute observations. "I checked on you to make sure you were not close to death, but I figured that you needed to experience everything for yourself to have proper closure."

Dernhelm nodded and then smiled at his friend, a warm smile that proffered a thousand thanks. He cradled Tarlin closer and looked at her pale, yet beatific face.

"She saved me, you know?" he said softly and then extended his hand under her head to Elminster.

A moment later, Tarlin was floating as if on a cushion of air as Elminster helped Dernhelm to his shaky feet.

"She finally put her past to rest," Dernhelm said with a heartfelt smile.

A doorway opened out of the ether, a portal that showed Dernhelm the familiar sigil of Tyr emblazoned on the flagstones of the Temple. He couldn't wait to step through.

Instead of Elminster following, he stopped for a moment and watched the departing half-elf.

"So have you, my friend. So have you."


End file.
